


World So Cold

by Tickle2Kill



Series: The Wanderer [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asgard (Marvel), Collateral Damage, Complete, Depression, Desperation, Drama, Gen, Helheimr | Hel (Realm), Hostage Situations, Hurt Steve Rogers, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, LITERALLY, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Suicidal Thoughts, War, Útgarðar | Utgard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-10-24 09:49:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 89,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tickle2Kill/pseuds/Tickle2Kill
Summary: The fight on the Valkyrie didn't go as planned. Instead of Schmidt vanishing via Tesseract to who-knows-where, it's Steve that gets a one-way trip to possibly the worst vacation spot there is. Between the unbearable cold, inhospitable inhabitants, and the sinking suspicion that he's not going anywhere any time soon, Steve Rogers has no choice but to adapt.Jötunheim is a cold world, both inside and out. In order to survive, he too must be cold. The Jötunn are warmongers with fighting in their blood. Steve finds that he doesn't struggle for common ground where that's concerned. He is told that there is no escape from the realm of eternal winter, that the giants have been trapped for centuries.Steve...well, he disagrees with that. Jötunheim disagrees right back.





	1. Falling Star

**Author's Note:**

> If you look to your left, you will see an author attempting to get writing again by undertaking a purely indulgent AU wherein she exercises her habit of making bad into worse before it gets dubiously better. Observe her as she engages in a compulsive need to have feedback and posts the first chapter of a planned five-part series in the style of the renowned Dame Seatofherpants McFly.
> 
> Okay, on a more serious note, this is me doing the Winter!Captain trope but with a twist. This is pretty much the MCU, just...like two doors down or something. A second cousin, if you will. I've got it plotted out already, but I'm open to feedback, so feel free to comment; I'll be listening.
> 
> Story title from the Three Days [ Grace ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhOQb-hrgpk) [ song.](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/threedaysgrace/worldsocold.html)
> 
> You can also drop me a line on [ tumblr. ](http://tickle2kill.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)
> 
> Now with [ fanart! ](http://fox-the-reaper.tumblr.com/post/162498874488/quick-fanart-of-steve-rogers-in-the-wanderer)

Abruptly, Steve Rogers returned to the land of the conscious.

 

It was an unforgiving land, full of bright light, foreign faces, and the occasional mutter as if commentating his gradual realization that he didn’t know where he was. He struggled to remember what came before this, but though he knew himself, he could not recall much else. It was the feeling of being thoroughly distracted mid-thought, then pursuing the fleeting thing to no avail. The circular disk pressed against his back was familiar, yet he could not remember why. He clenched his fists as he rose from the floor, his shoulder aching where he had presumably fallen asleep on it.

 

Pain, curiously, seemed normal to feel. Comforting, almost. Steve thought he remembered a long winter, but it came to him as the patchy memory of a fever dream. He took in his surroundings for something solid and real to focus on, ignoring - for now - the strangely dressed people looking at him.

 

Despite the overly bright lights and the utilitarian furnishings, there was an opulence to the square room he found himself in. All four walls were like clear glass, except instead of plain glass the walls shimmered gold. It was a strange mirage, and he reached forward to touch it, to feel its texture. The golden shimmer buzzed against his fingertips and he quickly lost feeling in them. Retracting his hand, he cradled it against his chest and tried to rub feeling back into it.

 

So, not a room, then. A cell.

 

He had a sudden urge to use the disk on his back like a hammer against the shimmer. It made no sense to him, and yet, as if by memory, he pulled the shield from his back and securely wove his arm through its straps. This, too, was comforting. Familiar.

 

Steve turned his attention to the strangers watching him, frowning as one came forward.

 

She was an older woman, though she looked quite youthful, and in the practiced softness of her shoulders and graceful length of her neck, Steve saw someone of importance. Rich, but not vain. Powerful, yet compassionate. He saw her now as very set apart from the others. Her honey-blonde hair was coiled and bound atop her head, small lines of priceless gems embedded in the curls above her ears. She wore a pale blue dress, made of something mighty expensive, though he had never seen anything like it. Across her left breast and shoulder, she wore ornate silver armor. A cloak of dark purple added even more regality to her already queenly attire. She gazed at him in a shared grief that he could not understand.

 

“Mortal, you have our deepest regrets, our purest sorrow,” her voice carried warmth and safety with it and Steve felt himself relax slightly. “It was not our intent for this to happen.”

 

To Steve, it was an apology without prior offense. He shook his head.

 

“For _what_ to happen?”

 

The woman looked slightly taken aback. She came a step closer. “The destruction of your world...”

 

 _Earth_ , his mind supplied and he jolted. He remembered Earth. He remembered the smell of sodden turf, the reek of petrol, the cloying air full of gunpowder and exhaust, the overpowering odor of the decaying, the sickening perfume of the desperately living. Images of laughing people he did not recognize bombarded his mind, dancing men in tailored suits and women in fine dresses, all about them the oppressive airs of mourning at a rain-soaked funeral. The taste of liquor on his tongue, mingling with salt tears and cold ash. Strange visions of dystopia pervaded the word, _Earth_ , and he pinned the woman with a stare.

 

“What happened to Earth?” he asked, feeling calmer than he actually was. Bashing at the shimmering cage he was in sounded much more appealing.

 

“Nothing has happened to Midgard,” The woman declared, softly assuring him as if he were some startled deer. “It was of Jötunheim I spoke.”

 

At the mention of that place, Steve remembered more.

 

Winter without end, the taste of bloody meat, bitter cold that turned his limbs black and slowed his heart. A man’s whispering voice in his ear, regal and powerful, ordering him to rise. Snow so fiercely driven down cliffsides that it resembled mythical floods, wiping out whole landscapes. Avalanches were cold versions of pyroclastic flows, entombing all in its path. The deep-seated fear of them, the panic of being buried alive, the ceaseless wandering spurred by them. Mountains reaching into the stars, such an unfamiliar array, and the dizzying realization that there was no sun to shine. Sudden storms with no discernible end, barren fields of cracked soil turned grey in the starlight, blistering winds that carried howling calls. Sharp teeth and dirty fur, the discomfort of stone against his skin, the intolerable pain of being frozen alive. But above all, was war. War writ large and enduring, with him standing in the maelstrom. He saw himself going mad with happiness at the bountiful carnage he could reap on the damned infertile ground.

 

So numerous were these series of memories, vague and sensory though they were, Steve swayed under their assault. Still, pieces were missing.

 

“The Casket...” he whispered, confused as to why he did. His tongue had moved before he had the thought to speak. “It was stolen.”

 

“No,” the woman denied, and Steve gazed up at her. “Your men were defeated by the Destroyer. You escaped empty-handed.”

 

“Not stolen by me, _Asgardian_ ,” he found himself snapping, fury evident. “By you.”

 

“Why would a Midgardian need the Casket of Ancient Winters?”

 

“To return home,” he answered immediately, eyes dancing over the others gathered. He searched for a face he did not find, a handsome one with blue eyes and black hair. He didn’t know the person’s name. “To restore the glory of Jötunheim.”

 

The woman stared at him, seemingly transfixed, and said nothing.

 

Steve turned from her, annoyed but unable to pinpoint the exact cause. He began to pace. Something was wrong, something...he was forgetting something important. Why could he not remember?

 

“I can’t...” he muttered, pressing a hand to his forehead. Something hard scraped against his scalp and he looked down at the primitive bone-like weapon protruding from a gauntlet around his forearm. It looked like a tooth. “I can’t remember...I...How did I get here?”

 

The woman’s eyes were increasingly saddened, as if he was causing her pain. Steve was locked behind odd semi-transparent walls and had no memory of how he arrived here, yet his inquiries drew pain from her. He blinked, half-concerned and half-disinterested in his jailer's suffering.

 

“For your attempted thievery, my son pursued you back to Jötunheim. He threatened to start a war that had long since been fought and finished. The Allfather put a stop to it, and took you as the price for the slight.”

 

“Slight?”

 

“For attempted thievery.”

 

“Asgardians hold that which is not theirs to hold. I was no thief.” He felt a voice not his own speaking from his mouth.

 

“Spoils of war are fairly gained, mortal,” It was another who spoke, a woman as commanding as the first, but rougher around the edges. Her dark hair was plaited over one shoulder and she wore armor over her torso, arms and legs. Her serious blue eyes regarded him as he would a bug he was about to squash. He sneered at her without thought, but she tilted her head at him, bemused.

 

“Mortal, tell me your name.” It was the first woman. Steve looked from one and back to the other.

 

“Tell me yours first.”

 

With a patient smile, the woman obliged. “I am Queen Frigga, of Asgard.”

 

 _Frigga_ , he wracked his brain for anything concerning her, but nothing came to mind. Well, except one thing.

 

“Wife to the honorless All-father,” he said, bitterness he had no source for tainting the words. “Mother to the liesmith, the silver-tongued curse who ambushed us in the vaults.”

 

Not reacting at all to his words, Frigga nodded. “The very same.” When he did not respond, she reminded him. “A name for a name.”

 

Another memory, unbidden, overtook his mind. He saw a giantess and she said the same phrase, except in this she had stolen his and replaced it with one of her own devising. In place of his name, he offered, “Stígandr.”

 

Frigga eyed him, presumably because she could detect his lie, but she only bowed her head slightly in acceptance of it.

 

“How did you find yourself in Jötunheim, Stígandr?”

 

And that, oddly enough, was something Steve was very eager to know the answer to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 11 Jötunn cycles ago and far across Yggdrasil..._ **

 

The housing for the Tesseract broke beneath Schmidt’s weight and he scrambled to protect his prized possession, turning his back to the star-spangled man. Arnim had been adamant that he not unsettle the powerful object, fearful of an outcome he had no means of predicting. Johann was not so afraid, for results commonly considered bad had improved him not hindered him. The carefully crafted metal contraption that held the Tesseract was warped from the blow it had taken and he reached down between the mangled pieces to extract the bright cube.

 

As his fingers brushed the Tesseract, his foe came at him anew. The clanging resonance of that infernal shield rang sharply through his skull, having bounced off his temple with such strength as to uproot him from his task. The console of the Valkyrie took an equally damaging blow from his body and he grit his teeth in frustration.

 

Standing bold and proud across the cockpit, the one they called _Captain America_ , watched him closely. His shoulders were tight with tension and he, despite some knowledge he possessed, was as new to warfare as the youngest recruits to Hydra. He blazed a pathway through the battlefield led by eagerness alone, headstrong and bullish like all Americans before him. Perhaps it was providence that he wore their flag upon his body; he was as arrogant and self-assured as them.

 

Johann found his feet, unaided by the gravitational pull of the Earth as the Valkyrie plummeted from the sky. The Captain came for him, relentless in his mindless pursuit of so-called justice, oblivious to the progress that could be made if they worked together. It was very characteristic of the Allies. They could see no benefit from Hydra’s work, and so they fought to destroy it. Jealous in the success of others, they sought only to bring it down. _Like privileged children_ , Johann thought, _too selfish to share, too lazy to conquer_.

 

He met the oncoming charge of the Captain, tussling with him in the bubble of zero gravity the rapid descent of the Valkyrie had made. Neither one of them was really going to be the victor in a contest such as this, they were too evenly matched.

 

Two perfect results to Erskine’s genius, the sole inheritors of mankind’s evolution, and they wrestled for dominance in the skies above the world they should rightly rule together. Johann had never settled for an outcome because he felt his hands were tied. He was of the mind that he could form his own conclusion if he so wished. With a well-placed kick, he sent the Captain back across the cockpit and returned to the console. He flicked a few switches and set the plane to autopilot, bringing their playing field level once more.

 

“What do you have to gain from fighting me, Captain?” he asked his counterpart, marvelling at the vigorous beating of his heart. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

 

“To stop you, Schmidt,” The Captain replied, wearing his anger and impatience like a shroud. Johann delighted in the cracks that decorated the man’s perfect façade, having through his own agenda put them there. “To stop Hydra.”

 

“Cut off one head,” he began and, with a sneer, the Captain cut him off.

 

“ _Two more shall take its place;_  I’ve heard your catchphrase.”

 

“Yes, you have. You do not know what it means.”

 

“It means I’ll have more to do when I’m done here, more heads to cut off.”

 

“It means,” Johann said, stepping closer to the Tesseract. The Captain met him step for step. “Like all prophecies, that our work is not finished. _Our_ work, has only just begun.”

 

“ _Our work_?” The Captain questioned, disbelief written across his fine features.

 

“It was Erskine’s formula that made you, as it made me. We are all that is left of him, and his narrow-minded advances. We are what is next for humanity. The next step in an evolutionary chain that has been unbroken for hundreds of thousands of years. _You_ ,” he emphasised, gesturing to the Captain, then back to himself. “And me.”

 

“I’m not like you,” The Captain seemed uncomfortable at the mere notion. “You’re a failed experiment.”

 

“Says the poster boy for the _Übermensch_ ,” he laughed at the irony. “You are everything the Reich desired, you simply wore the wrong flag. It does not matter to me.”

 

“Why are you stalling, Schmidt? I’ve already stopped the deployment of your missiles, you’ve got nowhere to go.”

 

“Who said I was going anywhere? I am offering you a choice, Captain,” he held out his hand, the leathery red thing was not as foreign to him as it used to be. Johann believed now that the pale skin of his old self was the true mask, hiding from view the potential he possessed. “Join me, and we shall lead humanity past world wars, past greed that starves the world of meaningful progress, past the empty promises of other powerful men.”

 

“I’ll never join you or Hydra.”

 

“Hydra is a vehicle, a means to an end. It is a recognizable banner under which gathered people for one goal. One purpose. In my world, we will need no banners, no rudimentary tools such as war, we will bring about a thousand years of peace. _Join_ _me_ , Captain.” Johann was upon the Tesseract now, close enough to reach out and grasp it. Yet, so was the Captain.

 

“Go to hell, Schmidt,” The Captain cursed, and lashed out. His fist was an expected move and so Johann easily deflected it. The shoving kicks and punches that followed were also, if only because he was used to the Captain’s need to lay everything out on the table at once.

 

Unfortunately, the assault drove him further from the Tesseract and he twisted past the Captain to get back on course. A gloved hand grabbed his throat, yanking him away once more. Johann growled, throwing out kicks of his own, pulling his pistol from its holster. He fired at the Captain, who dodged behind that damned shield, and so he lowered his aim and put two blasts in the Captain’s gut. It was a testament to the man’s strength that he remained standing, though he staggered as he gave ground. Impressed, but with a task he had yet to finish, Johann shoved the Captain aside.

 

He should have expected the unforgiving blow from the shield that knocked him to his stomach.

 

As he gasped for air, Johann watched the Captain move toward the Tesseract, lifting it from its housing delicately. It let out a burst of vibrant blue and the droning whine it emitted pierced his ears.

 

“You fool,” he wheezed, climbing to his feet. “What have you done?”

 

The Captain went to speak, his mouth open, when the Tesseract’s blue aura expanded and swallowed him whole. A beam of light rose high into the sky, straight through the roof of the Valkyrie, and Johann could see a multitude of galaxies, of nebulas and the deep unknown of space. He advanced on the Captain, bent on retrieving the Tesseract, when the light pulsed and the Captain vanished, taken up with the vortex. The Tesseract fell from the height of the Captain’s hand, and burned through the floor of the Valkyrie. Johann could not retrieve it as it fell.

 

The console of the Valkyrie blared warnings to him and he turned to the broken cockpit glass. If nothing else, Johann would finish what he started.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 11 Jötunn cycles ago on **Jötun** heim..._ **

 

The dark skies of the realm of forever winter split as a pure white beam of light came barrelling down. The clouds dispersed, the air vibrated, and the beam of light crashed forcefully into the frozen river, shattering layer upon layer of ice. The slow moving waters below splashed upwards, drenching and adding new ice to the surface. Something dark fell from the center of the beam and down into the waters.

 

Almost as quickly as it appeared, the beam of light vanished, leaving a strange quiet over the river. Whatever animals, had there been any, that roamed the bank had fled. The wind blew through bare branches of trees as pale as bone, and they creaked and groaned. The hole in the ice left as testament to the strange light was rapidly closing, the puncture healing until one could not tell anything had occurred.

 

Below the ice, deposited by the light, a figure fought the slow but heavy current to reach a surface already too thickly frozen to break.

 

Steve was caught up in the flow of ice chunks and branches, weighed down by the water, and had landed hard enough to knock all the breath out of him. He refused the urge to gasp for air, gazing around in near-complete darkness for a window to the surface. All above him was thick ice, all far below him solid ground, and all around him was frigid water. But he couldn’t panic, he had to think his way out of it. At least that what’s he told himself.

 

He went with the flow, letting the momentum carry him faster than he would have been able to go on his own amidst the debris. Thankfully his shield was still on his arm. He would have had no traction with his boots or his fingers. As the current brought him within range of the ice, he jammed it as hard as possible upward. It caught and he floated to a stop. As he extracted the shield, the ice seemed to grow slowly back into place. Frowning, he tried again, but instead of waiting for the ice to grow back, he pounded at it as fast as he could. The weight of the water made it increasingly harder to maintain the rhythm, but he had no air left to trade for another chance. So he pushed through, his lungs burning from lack of oxygen, and hammered away. Piece after piece, it gave way until the shield met air. He pulled himself up and rolled away, the ice closing solidly behind him.

 

His first gasp of air hurt like fire going into his lungs, the air just as cold as the water. Steve forced himself to breathe. Despite the pain, he had to. For long moments he didn’t move, caught in the unwinnable race to regain enough oxygen. The air was thin here, wherever _here_ was, and no matter how deeply he gasped, he could not fill his lungs. But, he had enough to go on, so he rolled over, weak and woozy, and dragged himself to his feet. The process was slow and he had to lean his weight against his shield just to keep the momentum going, but eventually he was upright. His abdomen burned where Schmidt had shot him, and he saw a little blood as he put his shield on his back. His uniform was drenched straight through but already it was frosting over, freezing nearly solid in the cold air. As he moved, it crackled, breaking the layer at the top. Underneath, down to his bone, he was terribly cold. His hair was frozen, too, plastered to the side of his head. His head ached, his body shook, and he stumbled to the muddy bank across slippery ice.

 

When he blinked, his eyelashes shed little flakes of ice and he tried to keep his teeth from chattering by clenching his jaw shut. It didn’t help. He needed a fire and shelter.

 

Steve’s boots hit the muddy bank and sank ankle deep, the squishy earth greedily absorbing his weight and pulling him down. He marched out of it, squelch by squelch, until he found dry land. Exhausted, wet and frozen, Steve stood on the bank and breathed in shallow bursts, incapable of more in this air. His head swam.

 

The Tesseract had thrown him some place in a cyclone of pure white laced with a rainbow of colors and he tried to decide where it could be. They had been flying over the Arctic, him, Schmidt and the Valkyrie, perhaps it had cast him down. It hadn’t taken the plane down, as Steve couldn’t see fire or debris from the crashed plane anywhere. Had Schmidt survived? He had no way of knowing without communicating with Peggy, Colonel Phillips and the Commandos, and if he was in the Arctic he wasn’t going to be in range unless he trekked across the frozen landscape for weeks to find civilization. Schmidt could have done any number of things by that point.

 

The possibilities spiralling from his displacement were bogging his mind down with worry. There wasn’t much he could do, standing on the verge of hypothermia on a foreign riverbank, about Schmidt and the Valkyrie. He could worry about that when he wasn’t actively freezing to death.

 

So Steve started walking, looking for a place to camp that he could defend while getting warm.

 

All around him were barren trees, caught in the throes of deep winter, snow piles blanketed their trunks and bare branches, icicles enveloped their bark. The ground was hard and unforgiving under his mud-caked boots now that he wasn’t on the bank, and his march took far too much effort. Either hypothermia was setting in or he was more injured than he thought. Steve panted in the cold, his breath like puffs of smoke in front of his face, and closed his eyes. He doesn’t remember falling.


	2. The First Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Present Day..._ **

 

After a round of unsuccessful questioning about how he managed to get to Jötunheim and what had happened to him while he was there, Steve had been left alone in his gilded cell.

 

Despite his continued captivity, he didn’t mind the solitude. He filled up the silence with the steady rhythm of his pacing footfalls, exploring every inch of his cell. There was no obvious power source to the shimmering walls and the edges were smooth. Even the light had no discernible socket or bulb. It was something he registered could only be achieved through magic.

 

Breathing deeply, Steve stared through the walls to the other cells that surrounded his. A few were unoccupied, but a couple held creatures even more strange and unusual than the images of Jötunheim he had seen in his mind. A sense of déjà vu overcame him as he came to grips with the thought that he was _extremely_ far from home. His shield rang as he hit it with a closed fist, creating a steady tone to join the beat of his measured steps.

 

He was alight with energy, with a need to act, but he couldn’t. The urge to attack the shimmering walls surged in his chest and he exhaled raggedly, spinning back the way he’d come.

 

He couldn’t remember an entire section of his life and it plagued him, the dark spaces. He dug around them for clues to his current predicament, but always came up empty. He didn’t like the occupation of his own mind, the shadowy version of himself he glimpsed through half-remembered dreams when something the Asgardians said triggered his brain.

 

He didn’t like the feeling of being a ghost in his own body, of cloudy memories wherein he couldn’t recognize himself. Covered in paint, in fur, in blood, screaming and screaming, using his shield like an axe, a strange fang-like blade in his other hand. He was a horror to himself, yet he remembered it as though he lived it. Perhaps he had.

 

There was a single bed in his cell, far more opulent than he would have expected, but everything he had seen of the Asgardians was rich and over-the-top. He supposed it came with the territory of being conquerors.

 

Voices he didn’t recognize shouted curses at the mere mention of the Asgardians and he had learned over time to believe in them. As yet, he hadn’t seen anything to refute the claims against them. Dripping in gold and importance, there was no way they saw what happened to those they left behind. Frost giants were just the punching bag they sharpened their technique on, a dummy of an enemy that could be adapted to their present hatred. Steve was just one of a long line of prisoners from Jötunheim, a trophy of the Asgardians continued reign.

 

Steve paused, his jaw clenched, and the echo of his last footstep screamed through the silence.

 

He should beat down the walls of his golden cell and wreak havoc on their pristine comfort. He should scream and rage against them. The winds of a vengeful winter rose in him and he shook at the ice that filled his veins. He was freezing down to his core and even his anger couldn’t warm him.

 

Time became an abstract, and in its impermanence he conspired to raze Asgard to its foundations. A voice, stalwart but soft, broke through his reverie.

 

“I have only seen wild animals behave as you do,” It was the second woman; the one in silver armor with a red cloak. She stared at him, her blue eyes narrowed, and crossed her arms. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

 

“Why do you care?” he whispered, turning away from her to pace to the other side of the cell. She reminded him of someone. _I can get by on my own_.

 

“I saw you on Jötunheim,” she watched him without moving and every time he turned she was there in his periphery. “You were a worthy opponent. If not for the Frost Beast, we may have fought.”

 

“The Frost Beast?” he asked of himself, searching his mind for the memory of such a thing. It came to him on the edge of a roar and the world shifted beneath him like a living beast. He stumbled, the sight of the cell wavering as his mind’s eye projected another world entirely. Red eyes stared into his own and he remembered triumphant smiles on scarred blue faces, hands as big as his chest weighing on his back, air beneath his feet as he _flew_.

 

“You rode the Beast like a horse,” she was laughing, if only by the light in her eyes, and he gazed uncertainly at her. “The frost giants did not seem surprised. You had their favor. How did you gain it?”

 

Steve paused for the second time, breathing in and out too heavily. He shifted until he could cross the cell to the bed and sat down. He clenched his fist and closed his eyes. He should know the answer to that. He should have a memory of what she spoke of. He should _know_.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Of course you do,” she stepped closer to the glow of the cell wall and he looked at her through a curtain of filthy hair. “You knew Midgard, and Jötunheim. You knew Loki. Whatever you have done, it is inside of your mind. Why do you hide it?”

 

Frustrated, he shot to his feet. “I’m not _hiding_ anything!”

 

“Then why do you fight it?” She rose vocally to his challenge and he squared up to her as best he could, knowing he couldn’t reach her to make good on it. “The Midgardian I saw on Jötunheim would not be pacing in a cell. He would be fighting to the last to get free.”

 

“What would you know of freedom? Asgardians are all the same. Brynja knew and she warned me. Ólafur had endless tales of your people. You _enslave_ them.” The names brought faces with them, a giantess and a giant, one young and one old. Fondness filled the memories and sorrow followed as he realized they were either with him in the vaults or perished on  Jötunheim.

 

She blinked at him, watching as he panted. “What other crimes do you accuse Asgardians of? Did we remove you from your world and abandon you? Did we make you into a weapon of war for our benefit? What else are you going to blame on us?”

 

“You murdered them,” Steve accused, banging his fist against his shield to hear the clang. “I had lost everything, _everything_ , and just when I’d gained it back...you take it. You murdered my friends. My family.”

 

The thought of it, of having lost everything _twice,_ hit him in the heart hard. The pain exploded inside of him and he swallowed a sob, holding his breath. Earth,  Jötunheim...everything he touched was destroyed. Something like a singularity bloomed in his chest, sucking in his anger and grief. He neither grew stronger nor weaker, but tumbled deeper into the darkness of his mind.

 

“Lady Sif!” An attendant hurried in, slightly out of breath, and slowed as he saw the stand-off between the two. Holding up a hand, _Lady Sif_ stared at Steve.

 

“Loki alone destroyed Jötunheim, it was not Asgard’s doing.”

 

“He’s _your_ Beast,” Steve snapped, glaring at her. Like an injured animal, he was lashing out. “It was _your_ vaults he lured us to, it was _your_ Destroyer that murdered them. He let me live to send a message. I won’t be that kind.”

 

“If this is who you truly are, Midgardian,” Lady Sif said, stepping away. “Then you belong in a cell.”

 

“We both do.”

 

Granting him little more than a sideways glance as she turned away, Lady Sif marched off with the attendant in tow.

 

Steve watched until she vanished from view, then he reared back and slammed his shield into the cell wall where she had been standing a moment ago. He pummeled it until his will gave out, then he began to pace again. Jötunheim burst to life in his mind, swallowing him in ice and battle. He barely noticed the blurriness of his vision or the wetness on his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 11 cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Steve came to as something nipped at his left leg and tugged him away from the tree he had fallen beside. He didn’t lash out immediately, caught up in a haze of disorientation. What should have been metal or at the very least an uncomfortable cot beneath him was only snow. Reality hit him like mack truck and he pushed off the ground with hands gone numb from the cold, managing to turn himself onto his back.

 

The first sign of life he had seen since crash landing came in the form of a wolf. A stunningly _large_ wolf. If it hadn’t been so close to him, he might not have seen it against the backdrop of the tundra. It noticed he was alive at the same time Steve realized the wolf hadn’t just _nipped_ at his leg, but had bit down. There was blood in the snow and wetting the wolf’s bared fangs. He could barely feel the wound.

 

Snarling, the wolf lunged forward and Steve rolled out of the way, reaching for his shield and lacing his arm through the straps. He’d barely gotten it settled when the wolf came at him again. He blocked the vicious bite, his arm shuddering from the blow, and he forced the wolf back, trying to get to his feet. His boots slipped in the snow and his injured leg didn’t even pretend to hold his weight. Howls alerted him to the fact that there were even more of them. Kneeling, he could see into the woods where there were two stalking around him. They growled at him, jutting forward to snap at him. He raised the shield, deflecting them, and they tried again from another angle, trying to isolate his weakness. Well, he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

 

Bracing himself, Steve waited for one to get close, and dodged its snapping jaw to grab it by the scruff. It whirled around to nip at him and its fangs met hard vibranium, stunning it a bit as it worked its jaw. The others were unsure of what to do, hesitant to attack when Steve was pressed up against one of their own. The wolf he had a grip on was very warm, like sunlight under fur, and he used his arms to yank himself up on top of it as if it were a horse. The wolf bucked, almost unseating him, but he got a good hold on the fur around its neck and tugged, sending it stumbling towards one of its own. The wolves howled again.

 

Steve forced the wolf he was riding to fend off the others, if only because they couldn’t attack him directly. That bit of safety didn’t last long. The other two were soon biting at him, not minding whether they got their brethren or not, and one snagged the straps on his back. He bowed under the weight of the muzzle, his chest pressed to the back of the wolf he rode. It was whining, shaking itself in every direction as it tried to throw him off, but he held tight. One of the other wolves snapped at his boot and he kicked at its muzzle, scoring a yowl for his efforts.

 

From his left, or his right, he couldn’t rightly tell anymore, he heard something heavy crashing through the trees.

 

He looked up fast enough to see something humanoid, if _gigantic_ and _blue_ , throw something like an icicle in his direction. The enormous ice blade, jagged and rough, tumbled end over end in the air to embed itself in the wolf beneath him. The wolf abruptly crumpled sideways to the ground, finally silenced, and Steve had to use the blade’s hilt as an anchor to keep himself from being crushed under its weight. It still caught his left boot and he smacked the ground hard. The impact knocked the air out of him and it was a struggle to bring the shield up to protect his body from attacks as he tried to wriggle his boot free. The pain from the bite was dull but every movement brought it to the forefront.

 

The icy blade was buried deep, but he pulled as hard as he could until it slipped free, spraying warm blood all over him. Wherever the blood touched hissed and it gave off steam in the cold. On his back, with two wolves picking at his shield, Steve’s heart was beating wildly. Drool and snow were wetting his uniform, long nails mangling the leather and cloth in search of skin, and they were kicking up dirt and ice in their frenzy to get to him. A cold, angry feeling welled up in him, heating up his insides like liquid fire. He twisted out from under the dead wolf and tackled another, bringing the blade down on its chest and forcing its muzzle away with his shield. It whined and kicked at him, but he just brought the blade down again. As soon as it stopped moving, he rolled off of it and under the vicious bite of the last one, shoving it back from him.

 

His lungs were working overtime to drag in each frozen gasp and his head was still swimming from the impact with the ground. He raised the blade of ice, even as it burned his hand, and the shield, inviting the last wolf in, and it charged at him with teeth bared. Steve deflected its first attack with his shield, then stabbed at it with the icicle as if it were a bayonet, but the wolf had learned to fear the blade in his hand and dodged. He had put too much into the attack, stumbling forward on the icy ground and catching a paw to his back. This time the jagged nails found purchase and carved into his skin. He cried out at the pain of it, knocked forward a few more steps by the blow, and spun as quick as he could to avoid another hit.

 

He could hear his heartbeat in his head, pounding away like a hundred drums in his ears, and the pain in his back was thrumming along with it. The last wolf howled, showing more pride in its successful attack than he thought possible. Steve opened his arms again, ignoring how it tugged on his wounds, and the wolf accepted easily. This time, he waited until the wolf was close enough to maul his face, then he brought the shield down from above and the blade up from below and caught its head in the middle. It froze, stunned by the move, and fell dead a moment later. Steve’s fingers wouldn’t relinquish the blade and the straps of the shield held fast to him, so he was yanked down by the weight of the wolf. He hit his knees heavily, out of breath and still biting back a scream at the wounds on his back. He was so dizzy that he fell against the wolf to keep the world from spinning.

 

The big, blue, _giantess_ rushed over to him, her footfalls shaking the ground beneath him. Now that he didn’t have to worry about being ripped apart by wolves, he noticed the giantess had dispatched the other wolves before they’d been able to join the ones attacking him.

 

The giantess took a knee beside him, crashing down hard enough to shake the trees behind them. Buckets of snow tumbled off the branches to the ground and made miniature mountains. She was blurry to his eyes, large and dark blue, but shifting out of focus by the second. He blearily took in her curious face, the way her hand hovered over him, and he sucked in as deep a breath as he could. The air was supposed to be for speech, to ask where he was or for a medic, but nothing came out. His back was on fire, burning him from the outside in. He mustered up enough energy to reach vaguely towards it, but moving his arms only ensured that he lost the support holding him up. Nothing caught him as he fell, uncoordinated and jerky.

 

Steve blinked slowly, as if he were moving through honey, but found upon subsequent blinks that it was harder and harder to open them again. Finally, he closed them and the darkness gripped him tight.

 

The last thing he could recall was the intolerable heat flooding through his system, burning him up.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Present Day..._ **

 

On the eighth day of his awareness, Queen Frigga returned. Behind her was a contingent of guards, the _Einherjar_ as she had called them, and beside her was Lady Sif. She gazed up at him warily and he gazed back. His madness had subsided a bit, though it was by no means gone. His instincts told him to fight, to curse, to rip this place asunder, but he didn’t. That was the shadow’s wish and he wasn’t that man. He _wasn’t_. Lady Sif was right; he wanted his freedom. He just had to convince himself of that truth.

 

“Stígandr,” Frigga began, saying his “name” in such a way that he knew for a fact that she knew it was false. “My husband believes you are too dangerous to remove from your cell, but we cannot bring the healers to you. Will you come peacefully?”

 

 _Healers_ , he thought, looking down at himself. He wasn’t injured, no more than he had done to himself testing the strength of the golden shimmer walls. Below his feet, the white floors were scuffed and filthy from his muddy boots and the puddles of melted ice and snow that had apparently been on him when he arrived. He didn’t recognize his clothing, except from memory, and it belonged to the ghost. Black fur, gold and deep blue linen, leather and metal, Steve felt so unlike himself that his skin felt wrong and he wanted to slough it off.

 

“I’m not injured,” he informed her, meeting her eyes. “I don’t need...healers.”

 

“Physically, perhaps not,” Frigga agreed, “But it is not your body in turmoil. Will you come peacefully?”

 

They were going to mess with his head. Steve took many steps back from the walls and eyed them suspiciously. Twelve Einherjar, Lady Sif, and the Queen, all come to “heal” him. What if they took more instead of lifting the curtain? What if they had taken his memories in the first place? Having woken up behind bars essentially, Steve did not trust the people who held the key. Queen Frigga seemed good and kind, but what if it was an act, put on to ease the struggle he would have put up against anyone else? He shook his head.

 

“I won’t let you take more from me,” Steve felt caged in more ways than one. His heart was beating fast, his mind racing to come up with a plan.

 

“We seek to heal your mind, Stígandr,” Frigga said, still as calm and immovable as ever. He hated that she could be so still and he was seconds away from going at the walls again with his shield.

 

She turned from him and nodded to one of the Einherjar. A moment later, the wall between him and Frigga vanished. He braced for attack, his shield raised and his gauntlet aimed like a dagger, but only Frigga stepped into the cell. She nodded again and the wall went back up, trapping her inside with him. Steve frowned, confused, and it disrupted his whirling thoughts.

 

“Stígandr, may I approach?”

 

Steve watched her for some hidden motive, some malevolent agenda, and nodded slowly when he couldn’t perceive one. Frigga came closer to him and he backed away a little, skittish like a small animal to a prowling wolf. All his pacing and raging had wiped him out, he had fallen back to a defensive position. The queen maintained her advance, until she could touch his face with one hand. All at once, a warmth enveloped him, and he felt his panic subsiding. It seemed to siphon from him through her hand and he stood rigid until she removed it. A primal urge made him want to follow her hand, to reclaim that warmth. It had been ages since he had felt anything close to it. She smiled gently at him.

 

“You have my word you will be safe. You are under my protection.”

 

Steve was speechless, the warmth radiating in his core and throughout his body. It was like chasing the ghost away with fire. It was a balm to the aching hole at the center of him. He met her eyes, which held the same warmth in them that coursed through him now, and found the ability to speak.

 

“The word of an Asgardian?” It was accusatory, but not viciously so. He sounded merely curious.

 

“The word of mother,” Frigga answered, and the wall behind her fell away. She held out her hand for him to take.

 

Something in him stirred, desperate to not lose the flame he now possessed, and he softly took her hand. She smiled again, and lead him clear of the cell, pausing as he took in the dark opulence of the dungeons. It was not as gilded as he had been lead to believe from inside his bright cell, but it was still too grand for something so mundane as a cell block. Frigga led him from the cells, up a flight of stairs and down a massive corridor. Behind them trailed the Einherjar, before them Lady Sif.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this yesterday, but decided to edit and be indecisive (what else is new?). If anyone's wondering, the Steve in Asgard is probably where Bucky would be post-catws; not cured overnight, but healing on his own.
> 
> Also, this is all un-beta'd, simply because I just want to start writing regularly again.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Present Day..._ **

 

The entourage of the Queen of Asgard garnered much attention as it paraded a strange man in filthy furs through the halls of the city. He had no chains, but the presence of the Einherjar said enough about his status. The fact that the queen held his hand mattered very little; she was known to be kind and compassionate, as well as fierce and formidable. The leader of the party being the Lady Sif only solidified the image, maintaining a serious air.

 

Steve could feel the curious gazes of the nameless denizens of Asgard, staring at him and whispering about what he could have done. Perhaps his clothing gave him away, but he couldn’t know. He wasn’t even sure what it was that he had done. They had told him that the frost giants of Jötunheim had once attempted to conquer Earth and the _brave and noble_ Asgardians had stopped them. This tale, told to him by the very ones who held him prisoner, did not win any sympathy from him. For all he knew, they were spinning the history as all victors do. But the fact that he had come from  Jötunheim in chains meant he was in the same boat as them as far as the public was concerned.

 

The path that Lady Sif led them on was winding, as if they hoped to confuse him so he couldn’t find his way out. Steve had an eidetic memory, despite whatever had happened to his mind, and he memorized the corridors they traveled down. He didn’t know what he was going to do with the knowledge, but at least he would have it.

 

They passed from one hall, full of pillars and a grand throne of gold, to another and then they were entering a serene rectangular room. The gold here was muted, the grandeur of the palace rendered demure and serviceable, and the space dominated by rows of flat stone beds. A few women, donning blue dresses and welcoming faces came forward, the eldest among them eyed Steve knowingly.

 

“Your highness, I doubted you could calm the savage one,” The woman said, a secret joke being shared between them. Frigga smiled.

 

“Thankfully, Eir, I did not,” Frigga came close to Eir and Steve, whose hand was still in hers, followed. His shield was still on his arm, his fist still balled behind it, but Eir did not seem to care. “This is Stígandr, he is the Midgardian found on Jötunheim.”

 

“I figured as much,” Eir drawled, looking to Steve and gesturing to the nearest stone bed. “Please, lay on your back.”

 

Steve glanced to Frigga, who nodded encouragingly and he started towards the bed. Eir shook her head.

 

“Remove your shield. You will not need it.”

 

“Forgive me if I don’t trust you,” Steve said, pausing.

 

“I will hold your shield,” Frigga offered, her warm hands open and without motive. Steve, hesitantly, pulled his arm free from the straps. The moment before it left his fingers went on for what felt like ages, but he sighed and let it pass to the queen. She held it by its straps as he had and granted him a smile.

 

Steve turned from her and hopped onto the bed, stretching out on his back as he had been instructed. Eir nodded briskly, satisfied by his acquiescence, and set to work. She and a handful of other women surrounded him. Eir raised her hands and a dome of shimmering orange formed over him, displaying his form from head to toe. It moved as he did.

 

Despite the painlessness of the strange device, Steve was uneasy about how it scanned him, showing his organs and his beating heart to everyone present. Eir moved something in the dome and he could see his head reflected in detail. She reached her hand into the center of it and he balked, fearful that they were doing exactly what he had known they would. Steve made a wordless sound of denial, trying to rise from the stone table and Frigga stepped forward. A gentle hand, with very little effort, pressed him back down again. He looked to her and she offered a kind smile. Behind her, he could see Lady Sif, her arms crossed. She nodded to him and he settled.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 11 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Steve did not wake from his unconsciousness as one does from sleep. There was no gentle rousing, no soft glide from slumber to wakefulness. Instead, he rose in anguish quickly, screaming, only to fade from the waking world in the echo. His eyes were clouded by his ailment, the storm raged inside his veins consumed every bit of clarity in an instant, leaving him feeling scooped out and hollow. The pain went on and on, a wave creating another in its wake until he couldn’t tell one from the other. Every moment was washed away in the heaving, tumultuous oblivion of agony.

 

He screamed and screamed, all night and all day, until he had whittled away at what voice he had. Desperate rasping escaped him but he could no longer make his distress known. Heavy hands pressed cloth to his skin, icy cold and startling to feel. Surely there was no ice on the surface of the sun?

 

In his delirium, he saw familiar faces and he chased them with arms outstretched. He begged for their help, clung to the sound of their voices, focused on the feel of their skin against his own. They were far removed from his pain and he crawled out of his own skin into the memories, trying to block out the agony. If he looked away from them even for a moment, he would be met with snarling wolves and every soft touch would become a bite. Any enemy he faced was locked inside his tormented mind and they were willing to claw out to the other side of him to get free.

 

If only he could do the same.

 

When the pain ebbed, a strangely hesitant moment came over him as he was tensed for the pain now. The only faces he could see with his own eyes were blue with red eyes. He supposed he was still in the throes of a fever.

 

Clarity came back to him as something was brushed over the wounds on his back and his eyes rolled back in his head. The intensity of the pain kept him shaking and jerky for a while, and in his convulsions he bit his tongue. Blood filled his mouth and he was sure he would choke on it.

 

A voice burst into his mind like a pocket of air and he took it into himself as much as he could.

 

“ _This isn’t payback, is it?_ ” There was a grin in the voice, a smile half-formed on lips he could have drawn from memory. The voice belonged to a man with blue eyes that to him were brighter than the Tesseract and just as powerful. He clung to the man, coiling around him like a snake for warmth. _Bucky, Bucky...why would I do that?_ All at once, he realized he was freezing.

 

“He is waking, Brynja. Bring the poultice.” A woman was speaking from right beside him. He turned his head toward her, but kept his eyes closed as he bit down on the urge to vomit. He was lying on his stomach and buried his face in the furs beneath him.

 

“What is he saying? Is it still about those eyes?”

 

“No, he is coming around. Hurry!”

 

Steve swallowed the nausea with a dry throat and coughed, his body aching in response. “Where am I?”

 

“You should know that well enough, Asgardian,” the woman closest to him hissed and Steve’s brow furrowed. He opened his eyes, looking up...and up...and _up_. Red eyes stared back. “Oh, do not pretend you are surprised. You aren’t the first brash enough to come here.”

 

The _giantess_ took a yellowed bowl from a young giantess and a repugnant odor filled his nose. The sick in his throat rushed up again, but he pushed it back. “I’m not...Asgardian.”

 

“Then what are you?” It was the younger of the two and she seemed eager to hear the answer.

 

Under the watchful eye of the giantess closest to him, Steve coughed out an answer. “I’m human.”

 

The young one’s eyes widened and she sucked in a sharp breath. She hopped a little in place. “Mother, mother, can you believe it?!”

 

“Calm yourself, Brynja,” a large blue hand pressed against his back and he smothered a shout, balling his hands into fists. “No Midgardian could survive these wounds. He lies.”

 

Brynja deflated a bit and turned away. “Shall I prepare the storehouse?”

 

“Yes, and dispose of the old one,” the older giantess scooped the odorous concoction onto a single finger with a long black nail. “I will not allow them to collude.”

 

Brynja nodded and moved out of view. Something heavy scraped against the ground and a burst of frigid air washed over him. As soon as it came, it was gone, heralded by the slamming of what he realized was the door.

 

“Now, Asgardian, tell the truth,” she dropped the concoction onto his back and though it smelled like a thousand dead things, it soothed his wounds and he sighed into the fur he was lying on. “Was it a dare? Someone bet their best sword against your willingness to travel here?”

 

“No,” he breathed, but she only tsked and put more of the poultice on his back.

 

“What method did you employ? Dark magic or one of the artifacts your king adores so much?” She angled towards his feet and he felt her brush against the wounds on his leg. The relief that flooded through him when his body wasn’t alight with fire was spectacular. He forced himself to turn, rolling to his side so he could see his medic better.

 

“I’m not lying. I’m not an Asgardian,” he stared straight into her eyes and she cocked her head to the side.

 

“Then how did you come to be here? No Midgardian has the power to travel this far across Yggdrasil.” He watched as she set the bowl to the side and he took as deep a breath as his wounds would allow.

 

“Something called a Tesseract. It’s a cube of light...” He wasn’t sure how to describe it. “It transported me here.”

 

“Do you still possess it?”

 

He got the feeling that his answer would have been the same even if he did have it. “No.”

 

The giantess smiled ruefully. “A shame. It might have made saving you worthwhile.”

 

“You would've left me to die?”

 

“You will die in any case, I merely postponed the inevitable. Midgardians are not made for our realm. You will last as long as my need of you does,” she rose to her full height and he had to crane his head back to maintain eye contact. “Hungry?”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Present Day..._ **

 

His mind, Eir told them as she manipulated the dome above him, was not injured. Well, not anymore.

 

“He suffered some great injuries, but they were healed. There is, however, a trace of magic upon him.”

 

Frigga frowned, eyeing him. “Is it Jötunn magic?”

 

Eir shook her head minutely, gazing at the readings the dome output. “Not exactly. It appears Asgardian in origin, but...perhaps _also Jötunn_?”

 

“Both?” Lady Sif asked, coming closer. She had abandoned her cross-armed stance to let them rest at her sides. Her face was open with interest. Steve stared at her from below, following the line of her jaw.

 

“What does that mean?” he asked and Sif glanced down at him. She met his eyes for a moment.

 

“Either you were cursed on Jötunheim and again on Asgard, or...” Eir looked to Frigga, then away. The Queen’s shoulders fell slightly.

 

“Loki,” she said softly and Eir nodded. “Stígandr, I must apologize once more.”

 

“It is _Loki’s_ fault, my Queen,” Sif countered immediately and with a edge of anger.

 

“He is _my_ son,” Frigga’s tone was steel.

 

“He is _our_ son,” a voice interjected, and Steve twisted until he could see the newcomer.

 

In golden armor, with a dark red cloak, and a helm with both wings and horns, Steve recognized Odin immediately. He met the king’s eye and something inside of him erupted.

 

Steve rolled off the healing table and snatched his shield from Frigga in one movement, sliding into a defensive stance in the next. Slightly crouched, half hidden behind his shield, Steve glanced around for an exit or a weapon; whichever found him first. The healers had removed themselves from the danger, stepping calmly to the other side of the table. He paced back a few steps as Odin advanced.

 

“Midgardian, I mean you no harm,” Odin’s voice was regal and authoritative. It commanded him to be calm even as his instincts screamed for him to either fight or flee.

 

“Really?” Steve remembered standing on the edge of a cliff, surrounded on all sides by frost giants, and Odin above him on a horse with too many legs. It was the last time he would see Jötunheim, the last moments he would have with his people. “I remember you differently.”

 

Something like sorrow crossed Odin’s wizened face and he gently tapped the ground with his staff. “War had to be avoided. It was your freedom weighed against the peace of two realms.”

 

Steve felt tears gathering against the inner corners of his eyes and he refused to blink. “My freedom?”

 

“Stígandr,” Frigga began but he laughed mirthlessly.

 

“Jötunheim is _gone_. Every time someone tries to end a war before it starts, innocent people die. You destroyed a _race_!”

 

Odin stepped closer and Steve raised his shield, ready to use it like his memories told him he could. Despite the obvious violence in Steve’s body language, Odin came within touching distance of him.

 

“Yes,” it was said without affectation and Steve’s heart sank in his chest. “Jötunheim is no more. Because of my actions, and those of my sons...”

 

“The frost giants are dead,” Steve whispered, his shield arm falling slightly. The yawning maw inside of him devoured more of him.

 

“Yes,” Odin answered a question he hadn’t managed to ask and the tears spilling onto Steve’s cheeks.

 

Anger and grief warred inside of him and he would have liked nothing more than to bury his shield in Odin’s throat. Frigga’s touch jolted him down to his core and he pulled his shield closer as if to protect it.

 

“We cannot change what happened, Stígandr, but we can ensure this does not happen again in the future,” Frigga’s voice had calmed him up until now, and he felt the moment her warmth didn’t reach him.

 

“Who stops you?” he asked, his shield rising again. He retreated further from them. All this power and who did they answer to? They seemed confused by his question. “You took me to stave off war, but it was your sons who brought it to Jötunheim. It was your son who destroyed it. So who stops you?”

 

“Asgard defends the Nine Realms,” Sif spoke up and Steve stared at her. “We keep them safe.”

 

“ _The actions of a boy_ ,” Steve recited from memory. “That’s what your king said. Thor brought war to Jötunheim and you called it _child’s play_.”

 

“We do not claim to be without fault,” Odin began, but Steve swiped his fanged gauntlet through the air in front of him.

 

“No one should have this much power,” Steve knew he was standing on solid ground, knew there was stone beneath his feet, but in his mind it was metal. Across from him stood not a king, but a tyrant with red skin. “Why did you let me live?”

 

Odin switched his staff from one hand to the other. “You would ensure the continuance of the truce.”

 

“That was before, but I’m still alive,” Frigga looked to Odin and Steve watched them both. “Tell me.”

 

Two words and Odin flinched back from him. It was so small and passed so quickly that Steve thought he imagined it. “We have need of you.”

 

“You want me to _work_ for you?”

 

Frigga approached again and he let her. There was no exit behind him. Either he went through the Asgardians or he stayed put. “It was my idea, Stígandr.”

 

“Steve,” he didn’t want to hear another lie from their mouths. “My name is Steve Rogers.”

 

The fact that he could say it without it choking him was just a nail in the place where his memories of Jötunheim resided. It would be the second time he reclaimed his name and he couldn’t even remember the first.

 

“Steve,” Frigga smiled at him, her fingers curving around the top of the shield and pressing down. He fought her for a moment, but decided it was not a battle he needed to win. “For their part in attacking and destroying Jötunheim, Thor and Loki were banished to Midgard.”

 

“Earth is your time-out corner?”

 

Frigga ignored his snide comment, continuing. “They are stripped of their power and cannot return until they make themselves worthy.”

 

“What makes them _worthy_?” Steve asked, unconvinced that the punishment fit the crime.

 

“Selflessness, sacrifice,” she answered and he felt everyone’s eyes on him. “An understanding that to rule is to serve.”

 

“What does that have to do with me?”

 

“Midgard is much changed from the last time we set foot there. Heimdall...” she paused and looked to Odin, who nodded solemnly. “Our gatekeeper cannot see them. His sight is clouded. We courted war with Jötunheim when our own acted without thought. It is our wish to not court war with Midgard in the same way.”

 

“So I'm a deterrent,” Steve wondered how much time had passed while he was on Jötunheim and if anyone even remembered him anymore. Captain America could be a relic of the past by now.

 

“I will not place you between Asgard and Midgard like a shield,” she flicked her eyes to where she held his own shield with her fingers. “Instead I would ask that you bring clarity.”

 

“You want me to find them?”

 

“They are my only children, Steve Rogers,” she held his gaze in complete seriousness, “If they cannot be by my side, I _will_ see them.”

 

“Why not send the Einherjar?”

 

Odin took this as his cue to speak and Steve listened. “Asgard must stay defended above all. That which impedes Heimdall’s sight is not to be taken lightly. We cannot alert Midgard to the presence of a threat.”

 

“Stealth,” he knew quite a bit about that. His size and quickness had made that his specialty on Jötunheim. He considered what they proposed and looked to Odin. “You want me to help you find your sons, the same ones who destroyed my home, and...for what?”

 

“When you have found Thor and Loki, ensured that they are safe, then you will be free.”

 

He blinked. “I have to pay to go home, in other words.”

 

“Do this,” Frigga caught his attention again and he realized she did it whenever he was on the precipice of raising his shields, both physical and internal. “Find my sons and you will have the favor of Asgard for as long as you live.”

 

“I don’t want the favor of Asgard,” he bit out, “I’ve seen what that’s worth.”

 

“What will you accept?” Odin asked, though Steve could see it didn’t matter to him what price Steve set. He only had this one option and if he didn’t take it, then he and that cell were going to be the best of friends.

 

“Nothing you have to offer,” Steve knew it was beyond stubborn, knew somewhere down the line he’d regret it, but he stepped past Frigga and Odin towards the exit. Lady Sif stepped into his path and he glared at her. “Either escort me back or get out of the way.”

 

“Rogers,” Sif was glaring back at him, nearly eye to eye. “If this is for pride, it is foolish to pursue it. This is the freedom you seek.”

 

“This isn’t freedom, this is servitude,” he pushed forward another step and she held her ground. Even looking up at him, she was fierce and unyielding. “I’m not doing your dirty work.”

 

“So you would rather rot in a cell than see your world again?”

 

His jaw worked and he turned his head slightly to regard Frigga. “What’s the date? On Midgard?”

 

“2000, I believe,” Frigga offered and Steve’s heart skipped a beat.

 

 _55 years_ , he thought, and tried to imagine what the world was like now. Surely the war was over, and maybe it was the _actual_ war to end all wars. Maybe after fifty years the world had gotten something right for a change. Deep down, in his gut where a part of him untouched by bias still resided, he knew that wasn’t true. Peggy would be... _79 years old_. Colonel Phillips was surely dead. Had the Allies won? Had Schmidt been taken down? How many of his friends were still alive?

 

“Can this gatekeeper..”

 

“Heimdall,” Sif supplied, her eyes shrewd.

 

“Can Heimdall see Midgard?”

 

Frigga swept forward and Odin was beside her. Steve lost what ground he’d gained in the space of a heartbeat. “Would you like to see Midgard again?”

 

To be honest, he didn’t know anymore. After so long, he was probably declared KIA. He knew what it was like to have ghosts. He didn’t want to come back into people’s lives like that. He didn’t want to ruin their peace if they’d found it. He’d done enough of that.

 

“It’s been so long,” he whispered, the weight of the years settling on his shoulders. “I need to know if they still need me.”


	4. Now It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Approximately 11 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Injured and without recourse for the moment, Steve resigned himself to staying put. It was purely strategic as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t get up and charge outside. The giantesses had removed his uniform and he lay in just his skivvies against a black fur pallet. Besides, until he was healed up a bit, he wasn’t in fighting shape. He was stubborn, he’ll admit, but he wasn’t crazy.

 

“I could eat,” he grit out, forcing himself to a sitting position. It did nothing for his back, which ached and throbbed, but it gave him a sense of control. He glanced around to get a lay of the land, and subtlely to find his shield.

 

He was inside a cave of some sort, if the stone walls were anything to go by, that had been converted into a shelter by lining up huge planks of wood and covering them in a snowy equivalent of adobe. It didn’t make the shelter warm by any means, but he was grateful for the lack of wind. Nearly naked as he was, he would have frozen completely in the elements. The space was dark, lit only by a small blue flame. It didn’t give off any heat and he wondered if it was driftwood. With a flick of her hand, the giantess answered that for him. The flame rose to a small inferno and cast ample light over the entire space. Though the light fell on him, no heat reached him.

 

 _Magic_ , he concluded and pulled some of the furs closer. _Right, of course._

 

“What do they call you?” The giantess inquired, forming a delicate looking blade of ice from her fingers. He watched her avidly as she used the blade to cut a piece of meat from some beast laid out on a low stone shelf. As she turned back to him, he averted his eyes from his surroundings.

 

“Uh...Captain America.”

 

Blinking, the giantess crouched in front of him. He still had to look up. “A strange name. Or should I say _title_?” He stared at her and she smiled, offering a hunk of raw meat to him. “Eat.”

 

Steve slowly took the meat from her, trying to find the motives or the edge to the cloud he’d landed on. There had to be one. He didn’t even try to wrap his mind around the fact that his mission was on another _planet_. He’d handle that when he came to it.

 

He couldn’t read the giantess in front of him, but he didn’t think she’d go through the effort of patching him up if she meant to poison him. He raised the meat to his mouth and though it was nearly dripping, he was too hungry to get squeamish. He bit into it and bit into it again, gnawing at it until a piece came away. As he chewed it, blood ran down his hands and his chin. The giantess nodded.

 

“Good. There is much work to do. You will need your strength.”

 

Swallowing roughly, Steve frowned. “Work?”

 

“The Storm King will come down from the mountain for his payment,” the giantess told him, pushing his bloody hand closer to his mouth. He forced himself to take another bite. “We must have it prepared. You will help us.”

 

He focused on devouring as much of the meat as he could, seeing as any time he thought to pause, the giantess reminded him he was supposed to be eating. As his jaw began to ache from chewing so much, Steve swallowed the last of the meat.

 

“Who is the Storm King?”

 

“Brimer; he lives up the mountain. We pay to live on these lands. They belong to him,” the giantess informed him, before scoffing. “Well, they do, for now.”

 

“He’s got a rival?” Steve asked, getting a feel for the world he’d landed himself on.

 

“King Laufey in the north. Word has it he will challenge Brimer for more land,” The giantess was leaning close to him as if imparting a secret. “Do you want to see the wars they could wage against one another?”

 

“You offering?” he asked, looking up at her through his lashes. The set to his jaw made it clear he was angling for a challenge. Maybe if he played along, she'd give him something to work with. With kings in the mix, maybe one of them had a way to get him home.

 

“Survive our time of payment, and I will personally gird you for war. Serve me well and I will ensure you live to tell the tale.”

 

Steve looked down and swallowed. “That a deal?”

 

“No,” the giantess declared, smiling down on him. “No, this I _promise_ to you, America.”

 

Chuckling at the absurdity, Steve shook his head. “My name’s Steve, Steve Rogers.”

 

“S _teee_ ve,” she tried out on her tongue and shook her head. “Little star, so far from the skies, I will name you Stígandr. That is who you are.”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Present Day..._ **

 

Odin left as soon as Eir corralled Steve back onto the healing table. Frigga once again held his shield. As Eir moved her hands through the projection of his mind, searching for the curse _Loki_ had apparently put on him, he turned his gaze to Sif.

 

“I don’t remember you on Jötunheim,” he admitted, watching as she shifted closer. “I don’t remember you at all.”

 

“You were occupied with Thor and his hammer. I was halfway across the skirmish. Perhaps you did not see me.”

 

“No, I guess not. I would have remembered you,” _You and Bucky would’ve gotten along_.

 

“Maybe you will again,” she gestured to the readout of his brain. There was a thin green barrier around it now and Eir had narrowed her eyes in concentration.

 

“My queen,” Eir called and Frigga approached. “Is this Loki’s magical signature?”

 

Steve figured Eir must have known if the calmness in her voice was to be believed. _A second opinion_ , he noted. Frigga took in the image for a moment, then placed her hand on Steve’s head and closed her eyes. A wave of pressure washed over his head, the warmth of the queen’s touch invading his mind. He leaned into it, but it slipped away.

 

“Yes,” Frigga said, sighing as she took a step back. “It is Loki’s.”

 

“We can remove the curse,” Eir declared, waving to the other healers. They converged around Steve’s healing table and he tried to release the tension in his body. “It may take a while, your Majesty.”

 

Steve heard the proposed dismissal in the tone and Frigga nodded. “Send for me when it is finished.”

 

“As you wish, your Majesty,” Eir began her work, isolating the green barrier and conversing lowly with the other healers.

 

“Come, Lady Sif,” Frigga called and Sif looked to her before turning to Steve.

 

“Good luck,” she offered, her voice gentle. Steve felt the beginnings of a smile tug on his lips.

 

“Am I gonna need it?”

 

“Most men do.” Sif pressed her fingertips to the center of his forehead, her touch vastly different from Frigga’s, and followed the queen out of the Healing Halls. Steve stared at the space left behind until Eir admonished him for not lying properly. He apologized and laid flat against the stone.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 11 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Steve wasn’t exactly sure how many days passed in the home of the giantess. He still hadn’t learned her name. Brynja, the younger one, had yet to return and all of Steve’s questions about her were ignored. Even if they were acknowledged, it was simply to tell him to stop asking.

 

“My daughter’s whereabouts are not your concern,” the giantess stated firmly and his next persistent inquiry died on the tip of his tongue. His mouth moved to speak it, but no sound came out. “Focus on healing, Stígandr.”

 

So he did. He slept and ate on the pallet of furs, never allowed to move more than a few feet in any direction. The giantess cleaned his wounds and applied fresh dressings to them what he supposed was every morning, but he had no light to judge the time. Every time she cleaned them of poultice and revealed a rapidly healing series of wounds, she made a soft hum in the back of her throat. Once or twice, she had pressed a finger onto his bare skin and it had burned like fire until it went numb. She would remove her finger and wait until his skin was healed once more. She didn’t ask him about it for a long while, but he could tell she was curious.

 

“Just ask,” he blurted, shifting from one stretch to another as he tested the recovery of his leg. It was nearly completely healed.

 

“You presume to know what I am thinking?”

 

“Is it presuming if it’s written on your face?”

 

Humming in that way she did, the giantess watched him from across the room. “You heal like no Midgardian I have ever seen. Or Asgardian for that matter. My touch alone would not kill an Asgardian, but it would do them great harm. Enough to send them to their Healing Halls. What are you?”

 

“I told you, I’m human.”

 

“What more than that?”

 

He met her gaze and she tilted her head. He could see her gears turning, her mind rewriting what she had assumed about him to begin with. _What are you worth?_ he read from the unconscious movement of her index against her thumb. Senator Brandt had looked at him the same way. Steve looked away, a deprecating smile flashing onto his face for a second. He began to speak, to tell her that he was just a soldier, when the door slammed open and a giant stormed in.

 

“Ađalbjörg!” the giant shouted, stomping inside with Brynja in his wake. “You commanded our daughter to kill Balder?!”

 

“He was of no use to me, Birgir,” Ađalbjörg calmly replied, defusing the air with little more than a murmur. “He had overstayed his welcome. I have another to take his place.”

 

Birgir, the only male giant Steve had seen up to this point, stared at him. With all three of them together, Steve got a better idea of giants in general. Birgir wore a loincloth made of some kind of green material and little else, his shoulders and elbows protected by the same material. Protrusions of it encircled his light blue head, highlighting the dark blue designs that decorated his entire body. He had a perpetual frown etched into the curve of his lips and Steve would have figured him to be a curmudgeon if he hadn’t immediately chuckled.

 

Brynja glanced at what Steve guessed was her father, before eagerly looking back at Steve. She and her mother were quite similar. They were both the same shade of blue as Birgir, with clothing made of the possibly standard green material, and dark blue markings covering their bare skin. The differences between them came in the form of Ađalbjörg’s headdress of pure ice, which arched like horns before trailing down her back. Brynja only had a small one, coiled like roses made of ice in a frozen bouquet atop her head. He noticed none of them had hair to speak of; not even eyelashes. Though they all had vibrant red eyes.

 

“What is this?” Birgir’s laugh sounded like a passing train and Steve shut off the instantaneous pain that the memory of trains produced. He had gotten used to shoving that down pretty far. “That is no Asgardian.”

 

“I told you, mother!” Brynja said excitedly. “Even father says so.”

 

Ađalbjörg sighed and the excitement in Brynja faltered, just as the humor in Birgir receded. “You were correct, Brynja. Our Stígandr is indeed a Midgardian. But a _special_ one.”

 

Birgir stepped further into the space and his footfalls rumbled the ground much more roughly than either Brynja or Ađalbjörg. He scooped Steve off of the ground and into the air without any struggle at all. In nothing more than skivvies, Steve admitted to a sliver of fear as he hung in the hand of a giant. His skin burned wherever Birgir touched and he swallowed a shout. It came out in a long grunt. Brynja hurried forward, batting at her father’s hands.

 

“Put him down! Do you want to kill him?” Brynja caught him as Birgir dropped him like a hot potato and she quickly set him on his pallet. “He needs something to wear.”

 

Ađalbjörg was watching them with an indulgent smile on her lips. “Retrieve Balder’s clothing. They should fit him just fine.”

 

“But mother,” Brynja grimaced, lowering her voice. “They’re filthy.”

 

“Then wash them, daughter,” With a flick of her one long black nail, Ađalbjörg sent her daughter off once more. Steve breathed through the pain of his frostbitten skin, trusting in the fact that it would heal in time.

 

“How did he come to our realm?” Birgir asked, enraptured by Steve's healing skin. Brynja had just opened the door, but she paused to listen.

 

“By the grace of Ymir,” Ađalbjörg was staring at him again, but in her red eyes he saw something like joy.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Present Day..._ **

 

Steve knew the moment Eir had succeeded in removing whatever magic Loki had put on his mind.

 

In an instant, he remembered _everything_.

 

Grief rose higher than any other emotion and he cried out, the hole inside of him filling to bursting. He had lost so much, he had _done_ so much. He was simultaneously in Asgard and  Jötunheim and Earth, languishing in captivity after captivity. One followed the other as if he couldn’t help but to fall into chains. Worst of all was the pain; not just emotional but physical. Teeth sinking into his flesh, claws digging divots in his skin, hands that burned his skin, fists that broke bone, weight that crushed him, suffocating in water, in snow, in stone. Horror bled into his mind in a never-ending reel and Steve could feel every wound as if it were fresh. His head pounded and he curled into himself, unable to fight off something that came from within.

 

“Sedate him!” a familiar voice ordered, but Steve’s mind was too torn open to identify them.

 

As quick as it came, the rush subsided. He had enough time to register that he had quite the audience. Frigga, Sif, Odin, and three familiar Asgardians. He had seen them on Jötunheim.

 

“The Warriors Three,” he said, as he remembered what they were called. They were wide-eyed as they stared at him and he closed his eyes.

 

“Rest now, Steve,” Frigga urged him, her touch gentle on his brow. He didn’t even try to fight.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 11 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Ađalbjörg would not let Steve leave.

 

As soon as Brynja returned with clothing, which Steve _knew_ belonged to a dead man because they had said as much, she pushed him toward his pallet with a soft, “Get dressed and rest.”

 

He hadn’t argued, because there was only one entrance into the shelter and he was surrounded on all sides by giants. They seemed to have absorbed his presence as they would a fresh snowfall, just something to be used to.  In any case, Ađalbjörg plied him with more meat, cooked in a pot over green fire until it was delightfully warm when he commented on how tough it was, and he had let his hunger win out. At her stern command for him to sleep, he did.

 

The next morning, or whatever time it was when woke, he found that he was without pain. His wounds had healed. He rose and accepted the warm food Ađalbjörg gave him. Birgir and Brynja smiled at him knowingly, their eyes bright with humor. When he thanked her for the food, he made a point of following her across the room. She eyed him curiously, having to look down her nose at him simply because she towered over him. They had left the door open and it let in all the elements. He was thankful for the clothing, despite their grim origins, but he would rather have his own.

 

“What did you do with my uniform?” he asked, chewing a bit of the meat.

 

“You will not need it anymore. The wolves made tatters of it,” Ađalbjörg paid him no mind as she set about clearing one of the stone tables that littered the giants’ home. Brynja and Birgir sat at another one, pretending they weren’t watching him. He glanced their way and only Brynja met his eyes. She offered a small smile, which fled at her mother’s glance.

 

“I’d like to have them back, anyway,” Steve asserted, savoring the warm food. “And my shield.”

 

Ađalbjörg paused, her eyes gazing at him sharply. “You have no shortage of demands, do you?”

 

“They belong to me, I have the right to _demand_ that you give them back.”

 

Laughing, long and cruel, Ađalbjörg turned to face him. He stared up at her, feeling like an ant under a waiting boot. He hadn’t felt this small since before the serum. She bent down until she had very little trouble looking him in the eye.

 

“What will you do when you have them? Leave?”

 

“I have to get home,” he stated plainly and Ađalbjörg smiled. Her teeth looked like weapons all their own.

 

“You _are_ home, Stígandr.”

 

“That’s not my name.”

 

“You would deny your name? After all I have done for you?”

 

“I don’t have to accept it just because you helped me. I'm grateful, but you didn’t save me out of kindness,” Steve squared his shoulders, frowning up at her. “And I didn’t ask for a name. I already have one.”

 

“Yes, you do,” she agreed, her lips curved into a bigger smile. “Tell me, again, what it is.”

 

“St...St...St...” Steve felt the same strange tightness in his throat and no matter how much he tried to say his name, it wouldn’t come out.

 

“I can not hear you, little star. Tell me again your name.”

 

“St...My name is...St-Stígandr?” He changed tracks and the tightness lifted. The name she gave him rolled off his tongue with ease. He tried to say his name again, but it would not come out. “What did you do?”

 

“I have named you, Stígandr. A name for a name.” She gently laid a hand on him and he stayed rooted to the spot. “For as long as you and I both live, _you_ belong to _me_. Such is the power of a given name, such is the power you granted me.”

 

“I didn’t give you anything,” he tried to move out of her grasp, but she held him still. Panic was welling up in him at the realization that he had fallen into a magical trap.

 

“Yes, you did.”

 

“Ađalbjörg,” he snapped, and she tilted her head at him. “I have your name, too.”

 

Brynja let out a small giggle and Birgir huffed. Ađalbjörg simply smiled. “Did I give my name to you, little star? Or did you hear it on the wind?”

 

“You...” Steve thought back to the days before, to all that had happened. Never once did they offer their names. He had only heard them spoken aloud to each other. He didn’t know what to do.

 

“Now,” Ađalbjörg began, letting him go with the smallest movement of her hand. He made for the door. “Ah-ah-ah, stay!”

 

His muscles tightened at her command and he stopped moving. As soon as he had complied to her order, the strangeness fled from him. She stepped out of his way, letting him see the fresh snow. Right outside that door was his freedom and he couldn’t even move. It felt as if one of his nightmares had become reality.

 

“Now,” Ađalbjörg repeated, and clapped her hands. The resulting boom shook loose the snow from the roof of their shelter and it piled in front of the open doorway. “You will help us prepare for King Brimer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, just for ref, Ađalbjörg is inspired by the [Wendol Mother from The 13th Warrior.](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/90/64/a3/9064a3b7e042439326ccb6ff6ecd7aeb.jpg) Just...a frost giant version of her. Also, I'm really channeling Dame Seatofherpants McFly. Hip-hip-hooray?


	5. Meant to Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Approximately 10 Jötunn cycles ago on_** **Jötunheim** **...**

His whole body was on fire, yet he was choking on icy water. All around him was an endless ocean the color of the midnight sky, littered with gleaming stars that blinded him if he dared to look. The imperative that he breathe in was so strong that he couldn’t ignore it and with a painful gasp he gulped down frigid water until it had no more places inside him to go. He was sinking further beneath the surface, the stars were glowing brighter, and he was still trying to breathe. He needed oxygen, and he needed it now.

With a burst of strength he tossed and the water fought him, shoving him back down until he could feel himself falling. He did not fall slowly as if through tons of water, instead he plummeted from the clouds and the over-bright stars, shooting back down to earth like debris...like one of those stars...like a _bomb_.

Fear swept through him and carried the drowning feeling with it, but the speed with which he fell made it impossible to breathe in now that there was limitless air. He turned again, until he could see where it was he would land, what he would destroy. At first the overhead view brought no place to mind, but as he grew closer to it he could see familiar streets and famous landmarks. He was hurtling towards New York.

The wind was arctic cold from this height and he remembered someone else falling, remembered looking into blue eyes as they shone with terror, with the sudden knowledge of their own end. Steve reached out for Bucky, for New York, but his hands were too far away from them to do any good. All around him were lights, bright blazing lights, so different from those stars behind him that it was jarring. He heard the crashing, and the booming, and the whistling of other bombs being deployed and hitting the earth. People as small as ants were running from the danger, but there was nowhere to go. They would die, like Bucky died, like all those men had died. Every single one of them another casualty of war.

 

The fall was almost over, and the earth was so close now. Steve was helpless to stop anything, so he closed his eyes and let gravity do the rest.

 

* * *

 

 

The giants had another shelter, a storehouse built between two unbelievably thick trees, and inside it they had amassed a small mountain of food and supplies. Carcasses of mammoths, deer, and large foxes, along with odd fish he hadn’t seen before and stacks of dried _glow-weed_ \- as Brynja had called them - and other herbs he didn’t think an ice world would even have. There were an array of tools hanging on the wall, made of ice and metal and stone. Axes, awls, tanning knives, hunting knives, spades, hooks, and hammers. One corner was dedicated solely to bones, another to white crystals that were dull to look upon but were in such number he wondered if their plainness belied their importance. The floor was hard-packed dirt and the walls were well-insulated, but it was colder inside the storehouse than outside it.

The dead man’s clothes that Brynja had brought to him were insanely warm. There was a dark blue tunic made of cloth that fell to his knees, deer-leather leggings of the same color, knee-high boots and elbow-length gloves that Ađalbjörg dipped in some kind of oil that tinged them a dark gold, and enough fur to allow anyone to mistake him for a wolf from a distance. She even gave him a wolf’s head hood, taken from one of the wolves he had killed, as she thought he needed the fierceness of the beast to survive Jötunheim. She poked and prodded him as he put them on, admiring her work as a child would a freshly painted doll.

“Now, you are my little wolf, my beast of no land,” She smiled proudly at him and he gazed up at her sternly. He was not allowed to speak if his words were unkind. Ađalbjörg had assured him of that. “Stígandr, now you may survive.”

The oil, she had told him, was to prevent him from slipping on the ice, or losing his grip. If it had simply been a gift and he had not been her prisoner, he may have thanked her gratefully and used them to trek across the frigid landscape in search of something to bring him home. Instead, he looked at his new clothing as prison garb, to mark his status as a man in chains. The gloves were shackles, to remind him he no longer belonged to himself. It was a sign of his desperation that he had the thought that he would welcome tights if it meant he was home.

Ađalbjörg put him to work in the storehouse once he was clothed, and instructed him on how to prepare the meat for transport, how to store it in their heavy wooden boxes, and the properties of the glow-weed and other herbs. She gave him all the ammunition he could ever need to escape, even left the door to the storehouse unlocked, told him how poisonous some of the herbs could be, let him know when they would be sleeping. Yet, her parting words would bind him to good behavior.

“You shall not use this knowledge to harm us. You will remember the methods but you will be incapable of performing it.”

Steve had bit his tongue as a curse or two rose to his lips, but the tightness told him he was not allowed to speak unkindly to her. So he remained silent.

 

* * *

 

 

Whenever she got a chance, Brynja would come to the storehouse and sit right inside of the door. At first, she wouldn’t speak, but would watch him closely. Around her mother, she barely restrained her curiosity, but being in the same room with him made her quiet. Steve let her be at first, trying to see if maybe she was an ally. If she had magic like her mother, maybe she could help him get free and find a way home.

After a handful of silent visits, Steve decided to break the ice.

“So, Brynja,” he began, but she shook her head.

“Don’t speak. Mother will hear you.”

He maintained eye contact as he came closer, watching the wave of eagerness cross Brynja’s face. “Let her hear me. I’m not afraid of her.”

“Balder said the same. He learned to.”

“I’m not him and I don’t plan to die here.”

“If my mother wishes...”

“I’m _not_ dying here.”

Brynja flicked ice at him like minuscule daggers from her fingertips. The slivers left small black marks of near instantaneous frostbite, but the serum would heal him after a few minutes. She had been fascinated by his healing factor and made a sport out of causing him minor injury if only so she could watch the color bloom across his pale skin. The pain kept him out of his thoughts, at least, which had turned ever darker in his new captivity.

“You have no choice,” she watched the color fill his face where it healed from the ice. “You are trapped here, like the rest of us.”

“Okay,” he muttered, his hands on his hips. “If this is my new home, tell me about it.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Everything.”

* * *

 

 

Brynja was a young child when the Asgardians had come to run her people back into Jötunheim. Her father had fought on Midgard with Laufey and had come back changed. When the Asgardians took the Casket of Ancient Winters, her people stood back in defeat and did nothing. The fight in a great many of the older giants had gone out. Brynja was too young to be fed up with anything and her world was normalized to understanding and accepting that the frost giants were not what they had formerly been. Pride, oft a mark of the over talented, the naive or the foolish, had never touched her in the way it had her forebears.

 

She lived in the wave of post-defeat self-destruction that her people dissolved into. Full up with the desire for war with nowhere to go, they sold themselves to whoever needed soldiers to fight or had incursions to launch. Fewer and fewer of her people came back from these desperate attempts to retain cosmic independence and eventually the opportunities shriveled up. When their addiction for battle had lost its dealers, they turned on each other. Of course, this came in the way her father got into fights on such a regular basis that Brynja had learned to fight just to stand by his side. Her mother had abhorred the idea of her in the courtyards throwing ice daggers at fully grown giants, and had gone to Laufey to demand he deal with the miscreants that plagued the children. Scoffing at her, he had advised her to see to her own home if she were so afraid.

 

Her mother had said something about ' _not leaving children to the wolves, even golden ones_ ' and Brynja had run in fear as Laufey stood to his full height. Her mother had come stomping home angry, demanding that they gather their belongings and go.

 

She hadn't seen her king or her people since.

 

Others had been convinced to follow her mother's example and escaped Laufey's disregard by seeking asylum on the lands that Brimer barely inhabited because of the cold. The storm king had welcomed them gladly and they set about a trade of goods for their stay on his lands. For all of her life on Brimer’s lands, Brynja had hated the king. His giants were crueller than the ones in Utgard and they delighted in waving their torches around and frightening their new residents. Patrols, which would lessen with time until they ceased to come at all, would poke and prod at herself and her family.

 

Brynja realized they were _freaks_ to the storm giants, with their blue skin and red eyes. They were belittled by Brimer’s men and when her mother approached him as she had Laufey, she had been run out with a decree to produce _thrice_ as much payment as the previous one.

 

Cycles passed and Brynja grew into an adult, but still there was nothing for her to do out here in the wilderness but help her aging father and her conniving mother.

 

Her people disappeared from the mountainside gradually until there was almost none of them left. Her mother had whispered to her one day that the worst decision she had ever made was picking an unknown devil over a known one.

 

Then, one day, a man had come from the shadows with pride and brashness, waving about his spear and threatening the world. When he got close to their home, her mother had snatched him up and stolen his name. He had been bet by his brethren to take a secret way to Jötunheim and retrieve the head of a frost giant. After a few cycles of life inside of their storehouse, her mother had grown tired of him and taken his head. She called it _just_...Brynja had not disagreed.

 

This happened a few more times, all young Asgardians and a couple young Light elves, and all ending the same way. Brynja was growing tired of having to deal with boastful Asgardians who insulted her every day as the storm giants had mere cycles ago when they had cared to notice her people at all. Then, out of the sky in a pillar of light, a star had fallen.

 

Brynja had been out ranging for the smaller hares as her mother wanted to dress Balder for the running of the elks, when she had seen the bright light and she ran to its landing place. She had travelled quite a bit to find the man, who she supposed to be an important Asgardian because of the method of travel. As she had come closer and seen the man wrestling with a wolf, she had been _certain_ he was Asgardian. She had hesitated, not wanting to have to bring yet another home to her mother. But the man’s clothing was not Asgardian, nor was his weapon, and she felt no magic from him. Not even residual magic from travel. He was a void where she expected a beacon and without thought, she had acted.

 

It was highly illegal to kill Brimer’s wolves, but Brynja dispatched them as if she didn’t care, taking the man into her arms and peering down at him. He was in the throes of wolf fever, as Brimer’s wolves were poisonous when they attacked, courtesy of his new ally. She clung to this strange new thing, bleeding and new, and decided it belonged to her.

 

* * *

 

 

"I saved you," Brynja said, twirling his shield on her fingertip. She had found it hidden in her mother's things and stolen it. Despite being amiable with him, she would not let him have it. _Mother would punish us both_ , she had told him. "From the wolves."

"That was you?" he asked through a mouthful of food. He was taking a small break. "Thank you."

"I am sure you would have survived without me," her voice was playful and kind, vastly different from her mother. Steve found he didn't mind her company.

"I don't know about that."

"I would have hidden you," she began regretfully, "But you were terribly wounded. I..I am not learned enough to have healed you."

"That's okay," he assured her and she seemed relieved. "You did what you could."

"There were more before you," she whispered, soft and hesitant. "Mother captures them, puts them to work. She takes their names, hides them in the storehouse. No one comes for them and they never leave."

"I already told you," he reminded her and she nodded.

"Yes, you will not die here."

"That's right."

"But perhaps it is not your own will that makes you believe that."

Confused, Steve frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If you were meant to be on Midgard, would you not be there?"

 

“I made a mistake. I messed up and a lot of people’s lives are at stake. You don’t understand, I _need_ to get back home. My job is saving people...it’s what I do. But I can’t do it from here.”

“We may live simply here, but we are not fools. I understand what you feel you must do, but the gods have never cared for our desires. They have their own plans. My mother says Ymir put you here for a reason,” Brynja whispered, her gaze steady on him. “She believes you were destined to fall to our realm that day. And I think...I think you _need_ to be _here_.”

 

Steve was going to speak, to tell her how much Earth needed him, but he couldn’t make the words come out. It wasn’t because he didn’t believe it, but because Brynja was staring at him sadly, her face a tableau of grief. She must have been bottling this up for ages before he rudely landed in their lives. He could never make her understand how much he wished he hadn’t. If he was going to fall, it should have been while taking down that plane.

“At first, I thought that I was losing my mind,” she continued, a rueful smile on her lips. “Going on about destiny and purpose. But then I let myself entertain it. You desperately wish to get home, yes?”

“More than anything,” he answered without blinking, a sliver of hope in his heart.

“If you had fallen on Alfheim or Svartalfheim, they could have brought you home on great ships that travel the stars. Or if you had come to Muspelheim, you would have been burned to ash the moment you set foot there. It would have been a river of lava you landed in, not of ice. Or perhaps Nidavellir, where the dwarves would likely have killed you as a spy on their great works, or thrown you in a dungeon, or cast you out of their realm to another. But they would not have helped you. Worse yet, you could have come to Niflheim, or fallen directly into Hela’s kingdom. She would have ended you for trespassing far quicker than this snow will. And though she has the power, she would not have seen you home.”

Brynja reached over to him with a single finger and lifted his chin. Her hand was even colder than the ice gathering in the small spaces of his suit. He could feel his jaw locking up, burning from the touch of embodied winter. “If your destiny had been to return home, you would have fallen from the sky onto the Bifröst itself. The Asgardians would have gladly thrown you back to Midgard and washed their hands of you. But you didn’t arrive in any of these places. You landed here, on Jötunheim, the one world in all the Nine Realms that cannot travel beyond their own land. Your luck, if you had any, is abysmal.”

Her finger left his chin quickly and he had to wait until the serum thawed him out to speak. Brynja did not say anything as they waited, but merely glanced out the storehouse door to the space beyond.

All those worlds she spoke of, all those other places, each one of them as inaccessible as Earth. His only mission was to return home and he landed on the only world he could not leave. What was he supposed to do? Brynja’s magic couldn’t help him and nothing he had learned fighting Hydra could either. He couldn’t fight magic. And Brynja seemed convinced he couldn’t find a way home.

“Are there other...witches?” he asked, when his jaw allowed him to. Brynja sighed.

"Like my mother? Not exactly. There are others that practice magic, but they cannot get you home."

"The kings you told me about, Brimer and Laufey, what about them?"

Shaking her head, Brynja chuckled. "Brimer would eat you whole and Laufey is not our king."

Steve didn't miss the disappointment in Brynja's voice. "Can you...pledge fealty to Laufey instead?"

She cast her eyes away from him and shifted uncomfortably on the ground where she sat. "That's treason."

"I don't belong to either of them; my allegiance isn't set in stone."

"You aren't a giant. What makes you think they'll take you?"

"Your mother thinks I'm worth something. So do you," he met her eyes and didn't blink. "They'll take me."

"So, how do you propose to get away?"

He smiled at her and her eyes widened. "If I'm here for a reason like you say, then you've got to help me find it. We both know it's not here in this storehouse."

"You want me to betray my family and my king?"

"If destiny's calling, Brynja, you gotta pick up the phone."

"What is a _phone_?"

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 9 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

“Now, I do wonder what kind of soldier you are. This sickens you?”

“We don’t...” Steve has to pause and cough at the taste of something rotten in his mouth. “We don’t usually have to hunt.”

“How do you eat?” Brynja plopped her messy handful into a barrel and picked it up. “Do you take of the sun rays as I have heard tale the Asgardians do?”

“No,” he coughed again, clearing his throat. The taste wouldn’t go away. “We aren’t plants. We have...processed food.”

 

Ađalbjörg had seen his work in the storehouse and decided that they needed more meat for the Storm king. Brynja was teaching him their way of treating the meat once freshly caught. Up until now, he had been dealing with the equivalent of hunks of raw meat that needed to be seasoned. Brynja was discarding of the excess in a barrel made of a hollowed out tree trunk.

“Processed? What does this mean?”

“Someone else gathers the harvest, we just buy it.”

“There is a market for someone else’s food? What do they eat?”

“They feed themselves the same food.”

“The _processed_ food?”

Steve saw this conversation was going in circles and decided to just move on. “Yes, because we don’t need to hunt.”

“How can there be soldiers and not hunters?”

“The prey changed,” Steve answered without thinking and Brynja stopped. Under her sudden scrutiny, he elaborated. “Some men still hunt, but the majority don’t have to. Some men found other things to...to hunt.”

“Like females?” Brynja’s voice was as cold as the wind and she had stood up straight, her fingers curling into fists.

Steve met her gaze, disturbed down to his marrow by the implications of what she asked. He couldn’t pretend there weren’t those kinds of men out there. The chorus-girls on the bonds tour had often asked him to walk them to their hotels or to intimidate some lowlife who wouldn’t stop creeping around backstage. The fear in their eyes had been very real, as was the fear in Brynja’s. He hated that something like that was seemingly universal.

“Some men.”

“And you?”

The honest question in her voice, despite the size and strength she had over him, shook him. “I fight those men, as often as I can.”

“Do you win?” Brynja’s hands were still tightly fisted, but her eyes no longer held such hatred.

“More and more every time.”

“Good.” She stomped over to him and peered down. “Is this what war you fight? You are a soldier, soldiers fight wars. Do you fight a war against these men?”

“In a way. Except they are doing to countries and people what those men do to women. I chase them down, bring them to justice.”

“How did you come to be here, then? Were these men going to attack Jötunheim?”

Steve would like to see Schmidt try to conquer this place. Brynja probably would have let the wolf eat him.

“No, but the leader of these men, a man named Red Skull, had a device that I assumed could only power weapons. Turns out it also transports.”

“Midgardians have their own Casket? Does Asgard know? I am sure they would relieve you of it at their earliest convenience.”

“No, the Tesseract...” Steve trailed off, thinking. As far as he knew from what they had told him, the Casket of Ancient Winters could transport, but they hadn’t said it was a weapon. He changed track. “Can the Casket make weapons? Guns, bombs, things like that?”

“Guns? Bombs? What are those?”

Steve explained as quickly as he could, trying not to linger on the damage too much. The cause of scattered body parts or lack thereof wasn’t exactly easy conversation. Brynja looked as sick as he had because of the eviscerated fox.

“Your kind disintegrate one another? By the thousands?” She stepped away from him, her eyes wide. “And there are still enough of you to populate the realm?”

“There's a couple billion of us.”

“Are you Skrull? Chitauri?” She seemed to consider him startlingly alien now, as if he had suddenly revealed himself to be green and tiny underneath his uniform. Maybe that’s what those words were that she had just said. He hadn’t heard them before in his life.

“I’m human, from Eart-Midgard, you _know_ that.”

“Is it easy to kill this way because of how many of you there are?” Brynja took a breath, curious and disgusted all at once. “Does life mean so little on Midgard?”

“No, no, killing is hard. But some people learned how to live with it, to _like_ it. Those are the men I’m fighting. I’m trying to stop the killing.”

“With _guns_ and _bombs_? How many have _you_ killed?”

Steve was brought up short. He didn’t have an exact number. Hydra never seemed to run out of ‘cannon fodder’ as Dum Dum Dugan had called them once, and he hadn’t really counted them. He only counted the bases he and the Commandos had cleared, or the number of times Schmidt had gotten away. He and Bucky had talked about it, when they found themselves in those kinds of moods, but there was never a count.

“That’s a soldier’s secret, daughter,” Birgir said softly, coming back up to the hut with a pot in hand. It was dripping wet. “One must never tell.”

Steve looked away, uncomfortable and restless. He should be doing something, he should still be fighting. Blank faces flashed through his mind’s eye, not a single one of them human or kind. The emptiness where their features should be was judging him, an all-consuming gaze that he couldn’t tear himself away from. They were waiting for him, like an ambush, behind his eyelids and he searched his surroundings for something to rest his eyes on. It was a losing battle.

Birgir laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, engulfing his entire left side in his palm alone.

“Keep in the present, Stígandr. The dead need no more company.” An understanding radiated from the giant and Steve clung to it, trying to dig himself back out of whatever hole his mind had fallen in. His confusion caught Birgir’s eye and the giant sighed. “It is the ghost of battle haunting you. It comes when you have become too still. I learned this when there were no wars to fight. My life hung in the balance of my skills and of luck for so long, and I had become used to it. When the Casket was taken, we had no battlefield...no enemy. Only silence. The nightmares come when you dwell...so do not dwell.”

“But my war isn’t over, Birgir. My world is still in danger.”

“And you are here, where there is no battlefield...no enemy. You have found the silence, Stígandr. Now, it finds you.”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 8 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

The squishy earth on the shores of the river welcomed Steve Rogers’ knees gladly, soaking through padding and woven cloth to reach his skin. Before him, the waters carried the detritus of the most recent thaw, or what passed for a _thaw_ in a land made almost entirely of ice and stone, and he watched its progress numbly.

His mind, it was broken, scattered in as many pieces as the ice in the river and just as cold. He would never make it off this eternal arctic, never feel the sun’s warmth, never breathe Earth’s air. He would die here, if the serum permitted, though he knew he would be far worse than dead before Erskine’s formula failed in its duty. Well, at least one of them could see their mission through. If only Erskine could see how good a job he'd done, how efficient his creation was at survival despite even its host wishing for...

No. No, that wasn't right.

Steve shook his head, dispelling the thought, denying himself yet another glimpse at the easy route on offer. It was a test, one in which he either failed or succeeded based on how terribly far he allowed himself to fall. It was a game, but without end, and all his options were already played, leaving him nothing but the bargain. He had become a master at bargaining with himself.

Today, he wouldn't stop in the mud, he would walk right out with the ice and let it swallow him up. No, not today, but perhaps tomorrow. If the stars looked like _this_ before he lost his fight with exhaustion, then he would dive headfirst into the current. Every day for _countless_ days, he played this game.

It started as a plea, rose as a demand, and eventually crumbled into a despondent prayer; half-habit, half-hope.

“ _You never give up, do you?_ ” a voice echoed in Steve’s head, mocking him, and he answered by rote.

“No.”

Steve knew that wasn't an option. He couldn't give up. If he meant anything at all, then he had to continue on, in agony and half-alive, but living all the same. It was all he had left. He had blocked out all the rest, unable to carry it all with him with purposeless limbs. Every memory hurt like needles under his skin, worse than the cold come to claim his flesh as the price of his defiance.

It was sheer force of will, blocking out Earth - Midgard - from his mind. He pushed and shoved until he had it all locked safely away, deep in his mind, far from the anger and bitterness that pervaded his every waking moment. He hadn't finished his mission, he had failed, and he wouldn't taint their memory with his pain. They deserved better. So he let himself forget by keeping himself alive, his day-to-day necessities taking precedence over a world he would likely never see again.

He forgot out of necessity, but his pain remained. _God_ , he couldn't even bring himself to hear Bucky’s voice in his memories, the smiles aimed his direction were like bullets to his heart.

Screaming always seemed to help relieve the aimless desperation he wore like a cloak, and he hollered at the river, at himself, at what he had been told was a land of death upon the opposite shore where no light shined. He ordered death to take him where he stood into its embrace and begged it to crush the life out of him. He didn't want to be alive...not when Bucky wasn’t...not if it meant he had to forget him just to survive. He couldn't forget, he _wouldn’t_ , he would raze this world to the ground to keep him. If Death was too cruel to end him, maybe he could bargain with it. If it gave him Bucky...he’d...he’d...

No. Bucky didn't deserve to suffer with him in the ice. He should be warm. He should be...but, Steve could see him slipping further away down a chasm, reaching out for a hand he could never reach. Steve wanted, not for the first time, to follow. Of course, the torture of his fate was to join Bucky in the cold and dark, but from too far away and far too late.

Steve did not cry, not so much as he shed his soul in liquid form in the hopes it would evaporate and set him free.

“Stígandr?” said a voice behind him softly. He didn't answer the call, unable to force himself to move.

 _One last bargain_ , he begged of the darkness beyond the river, _if I will never leave this world, don't let me wake up tomorrow. Let me go._

“Stígandr, come.” And without his permission he was bodily lifted in the air, at the mercy of a giant’s hands, and carried up the riverbank and through a grouping of trees. He closed his eyes for the journey, staying pliant as he was deposited in front of something warm and draped with many layers of fur.

 

He refused to open his eyes and eventually the darkness, the exhaustion and the warmth lulled him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Morning came without light, for there had been no sunshine on Jötunheim since he had arrived, and he did not expect it to ever appear. Buried beneath a veritable mountain of furs, Steve was physically warm, almost stiflingly so, and he forced himself to move. If he kept still, his darkness closed the distance and valiantly attempted to suffocate the will out of him, so he had to be active, had to manufacture goals even if he couldn’t stand the thought of taking another breath.

There was nothing else but this.

Besides, he had made a bargain with Death, silent though it was, and he would hold up his end. It had not taken him in his slumber, nor had he surrendered to the pain, so that meant he had to find something to do.

 _Does this mean there_ is _a way off this cursed realm?_ He scoffed at his own hopefulness, but gathered up that infinitesimal speck of light and let it burn through what was left of sleep in his muscles. Steve threw the furs off and almost instantly lost what warmth he had collected in the night. It was a necessary loss, as clinging to comfort here was futile. He pushed open the door to the storehouse and once free from the building, he shut the door.

 

The enormous hut the giants called home was in was a flurry of activity, the scent of roasting meat mingling with that of wet earth and charred wood. His eyes felt puffy and, though he was rested, a heavy tiredness clung to his head. He walked slowly, but determinedly, until he could shove at the heavy door and sidle inside. Birgir made noises of greeting as he stretched in the entrance. Brynja gave him a once over and shook her head.

“Why do you court death, Stígandr?”

Steve glanced up to see the disapproval on her large, blue face and met her red eyes in some semblance of apology. “Don't worry, it won’t have me anyway.”

“Small comfort to me; you will chase it no matter how vehemently it denies you. It is cruel of you to make us retrieve you from its shadow as you do. One would think you enjoy our pain,” Brynja turned from him to her father and sniffed.

“If it bothers you, then don't save me. Let the ice solve this problem for you.”

“Death may have final say, but I will not hand you to it. You are as a brother to me.”

Steve looked away, unable to show her how little that meant to his darkness. Kinship or no, if he was allowed to leave, alive or dead, he would not hesitate to disappear. This world would never be his, and he would never be theirs. His stomach growled in the space where his reply should have been and Birgir tossed a bit of roasted meat at him.

“You need your strength," Birgir declared, taking a large bite out of his own meat.

"I sense secrets between you all," Ađalbjörg announced as she stepped into the hut, looking from one to the other. In her grasp was a handful of black foxes. Steve flicked his eyes to Brynja where she was avoiding their eyes.

"It is just talk," Birgir scoffed, shaking his head. "Harmless."

 

"It is not you I am cautious of," Ađalbjörg glanced to Brynja before adding. "The children have been _talking_ . At least Brynja did not take to Balder. It seems you _both_ have taken to our little star.”

 

“He’s our son,” Birgir insisted, patting Steve on the shoulder.

 

“He’s our _captive_ ,” Brynja hissed, slamming a pot down on the table and making her way out of the hut. “Just as we are Brimer’s.”

 

“Do you see? This is what collusion produces,” Ađalbjörg was staring at Birgir who sighed. Brynja slammed the door behind her.

 

“She does not fear our people as you do. She wants to go back, so do I.”

 

Ađalbjörg shook her head. “We left Utgard and I swore I would _never_ return.”

 

Birgir shrugged. “She made no such vow.”

 

Steve slid back out of the hut before Ađalbjörg could respond. He followed the footprints that Brynja had left behind in the fresh snowfall until he found her sitting beside the river. He came up beside her and sat down.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking out at the water for a moment.

 

“Brimer comes soon,” she sniffed. “I’ll never see you again.”

 

“Then let’s leave,” it came out of him with an edge of desperation and Brynja glanced down to him.

 

“You can not leave.”

 

“But _you_ can,” he didn’t mean to say it, but it was the truth. “If it’s so bad here, then leave. If I could, I would.”

 

“Leave Brimer’s lands...or leave _Jötunheim_?” she asked him with her head bowed and Steve clenched his fist.

“Help me get to Utgard,” Steve stared at Brynja, unwilling to answer that question. Silence met his words and he crossed his arms, committing to his train of thought. “I know, I know! You’ve said I’m bound to your mother, but you also said Utgard was the only possible place to find a way home.”

“ _This_ is your home!” Brynja asserted, and he knew she wasn’t talking about the hut and the storehouse. “We took you in, clothed and fed you, I kept you from the wolves and now the river. You are as blood to us. Why do you wish to leave?”

“Brynja...” Steve sighed, casting his eyes around them instead of watching the hurt grow in the her eyes. “You saved me, you kept me going even when I had...when I almost...you made sure I didn’t,” He shook his head, shifting to lean his elbows on his knees. “But this...this _realm_ isn’t my home, it’s...it’s where I have to be for now. Midgar... _Earth_ , that’s home. It’s where I was born, where I got the serum, where my family and friends are. I got taken from them, stolen from them, against my will. And I’m trapped here, stuck staring at that river and letting the cold win, but I don’t _have_ to be. If Utgard gives me a shot at getting back, if it’s even a glimmer of hope, I’ve got to take it.”

Brynja’s shoulders slumped, her brow furrowed and she let her arms hang by her sides. “You would leave us, if something in Utgard allowed you to?”

“Yes.” Steve didn’t say more, he knew he didn’t have to. Either Brynja would accept his decision or she would fight against it, but the result would be the same. It was the only way Steve knew to fight the darkness. The thought of going home was the driving force behind each morning, each evening, each vigil beside the river. He hid his memories in a safe place in his head, kept them warm and dry and far removed from the monotonous hell his existence had become on Jötunheim so he wouldn’t lose them before he got back.

“If you find nothing in Utgard...if even Laufey himself cannot provide you with transport, will you stay?”

The thought of it stung deep in his heart and he blinked back against the pain. He couldn't live here forever...he couldn't be trapped here. It must have been decades already, years of time gone in the ice, and if he was forced to endure another year...there was no guarantee that he wouldn't cast himself to the wolves. But, in any case, if he could not leave, he _would_ stay. Whether he lived, however, was up for debate.

“If even Laufey fails me...I’ll stay.”

Brynja pursed her lips, the swirls of her scarring turning pale at the tension in her face. “I imagine I cannot gain more of an oath from you?”

Steve remembered his first few hours here, when he had met Ađalbjörg, who did not trust him or his assurances that he was not Asgardian, and managed to wrangle a sworn oath from him framed in simpler terms. He still didn't understand magic, but he watched his words more closely now. “That's all I'm willing to give. It has to be enough.”

 

“I suppose it has,” she looked back towards the hut and sighed. “You will have to convince my mother that you have no plans to leave. Perhaps if she trusts you, she will release you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Brimer’s arrival is apparently heralded on Jötunheim by the running of the elk, the prehistoric kind that roamed this world.

Steve awoke to the sound of great rumbling, so deafening that he had to cover his ears, and the shaking of the ground. His carefully constructed pile of white crystals tumbled all around his head where he had curled up with his polished bones and he climbed to his feet. He emerged from the storehouse with some furs wrapped around him.

Birgir was whooping and calling out something in excitement, his usual attire covered up by fine black fur from the strange foxes Ađalbjörg had been hunting, and around his waist was a wide leather belt, decorated with long, curved fangs. He tossed some of the herbs Steve had ground to powder over the passing elks and they let out loud bugling noises in return. Brynja was further up the mountain, waving a stick of some sort over her head and chanting.

“Come, Stígandr,” Ađalbjörg laughed, her mood bright and punch-drunk. “Join the festivities before Brimer comes to ruin them!”

She stood not far from the storehouse, her hands full of a woven basket of berries so silver they looked like small moons. He had never seen them in all his time here. He came closer to the celebrating giants, confused but more than a little glad for the seeming cheer of the moment. He wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming or not.

“Come, come,” she reached out a hand and pulled him closer, and he realized she hadn’t ordered him to do it. She had given him a choice. Definitely dreaming.

“What is this?” he asked, having to shout a bit over the bugling elks, Birgir’s whooping and Brynja’s chants.

“We say our thanks to the beasts which feed us, grant them long life with our magic, and bid farewell to them until Brimer’s return.” Ađalbjörg tossed handfuls of berries at the elks and they gobbled them up and kept running. Occasionally, she would sneak one or two for herself. Then she offered some to Steve. “Moon-berries, for light in the caves.”

They didn’t glow and he didn’t think they were magical, but he delighted in his ability to choose and took a handful of his own. He ate a couple and threw the rest. Birgir danced at seeing him participate and Brynja smiled through her chants. Ađalbjörg tucked Steve under her arm and whispered to him.

“You may speak and do as you will, Stígandr, until the run has come to an end.”

Steve gazed up at her, but she had already resumed her berry-throwing and paid him no mind. He stood for long minutes, all the things he had wanted to say bubbling up but none seemed like the right thing. Everything he would have said, everything he would have done, no longer mattered. His chance to retaliate was now and yet...he had already decided to play along. Maybe the distraction would allow him to travel, but he had no clue where to head first. Maybe he escaped Ađalbjörg’s power and struck out on his own, but to what end? There was no country to protect, no army to fight, no flag to bear, no Schmidt. There was no Peggy, no Bucky, no Howling Commandos, no Colonel Phillips, no Howard Stark. There wasn’t even a Brooklyn.

On Jötunheim, Steve was a kid from nowhere.

His old uniform had been tatters when Ađalbjörg had given him his new clothing, he hadn’t had a mirror to shave in and after a while it did him more harm than good with the cold to have a bare face. His beard had grown in wild and dirty, the blond almost red. His hair had grown too, and he had used it to keep his ears and neck warm. Little remained of Steve Rogers, the man known as Captain America, and as he watched the elk race away from the mountain to the flatlands, he cast more berries towards them.

He had a chance to run now, but he knew it would be a temporary thing. He needed to think about the long game, about the real goal. He had to bury his rebellion until he could make a move. He had to let them think he had given up. Doubt rose up in his mind and he registered that part of him wondered how much of this was an act.

He ate moon-berries and threw powder, danced with Birgir and listened to Brynja’s chants. When the elks began to trickle, Birgir had run out of powder and sat exhausted beside the track, Brynja had come down from the mountain to sit beside her father. Steve caught his breath at he and Birgir’s latest dance, and looked to Ađalbjörg.

“I’m never going home,” he told her, feeling himself ache in the hollow left behind such a statement, even if it was for show. “I’ll die here and never see Earth again.”

Ađalbjörg glanced sidelong at him, her lips pursed. “If you will it, Stígandr, it shall be.”

He tried to understand what she meant, but it sounded too hokey to give it a real thought. Steve sighed. “I don’t will it...It’s just what it is.”

“Far too often we think ourselves without choice in life,” as she spoke, she chuckled. “You have good reason as I have taken yours.” Ađalbjörg watched the slowing tide of elks but her focus was not on them. “You have been with us for three cycles. I find that I know nothing of you save your name.”

“You never asked,” he snapped, and shook his head. “Why do you want to know?”

“I have plans my gentle Birgir would not appreciate, and you seem capable of war. Do you know it well?”

“War?” Steve asked, wondering what she was up to. It was a rare thing for her to speak so candidly to him about her real agenda. Often the information she provided to him was without personal importance.  “I know it very well.”

The sudden glow in Ađalbjörg’s eyes put him on edge. A cat with a canary in its mouth had never looked so pleased. He shifted so his hands were on his hips and she regarded him as she spoke.

“Brimer will come down from the mountain when the last elk runs. We will pay him our hard-earned food and supplies for the right to live in the caves. He will take an interest in you. Something new and shiny we have acquired without his permission...” she glowered. “He will try to claim you as price for our stay.”

“Release me from your spell. Then he can have me and you can have your caves.”

“Brimer would eat you.”

“He can try.”

“He’ll torture you.”

“He can do no worse than you.”

She took in a breath to speak, anger in her eyes, but seemed to remember she had allowed him free will.

“If it is your will to suffer, then you shall.” She began to stride away and he sighed.

“Why don’t I hide?”

She paused. “You cannot hide from Brimer’s sight, and you will offend him by trying.”

“So what’s your play?”

 

Ađalbjörg smiled. “I knew there was a reason I did not skewer you!”

As she cast the last of her powder out onto the elks, Steve wondered if maybe Brynja was right. Maybe there was a reason he landed here of all places. Maybe if he figured out what it was, he could find a way home. Laufey would not fail him.


	6. The Storm King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

Ađalbjörg’s previous lack of interest in his time on Earth was rectified over the sounds of retreating hooves. She revoked the privilege of free will, though he told her he wasn’t going to lie. He had already told Brynja nearly everything. Ađalbjörg wanted everything as well and she wanted it in the fastest way possible. So he kept things condensed. Years of his life squeezed down until they fit in the space of an hour. Put together in a slideshow, Steve almost felt as if he hadn’t done anything at all.

The one thing she was most interested in, aside from his healing factor, was the Tesseract. Thankfully, he didn’t understand its origins or its full capabilities, so he didn’t feel like he was revealing top secret details about a weapon of mass destruction. It was bad enough Schmidt had it; he’d hate to think of what Ađalbjörg could do with it on Jötunheim. Not that he’d seen any other giants yet. The world felt incredibly small, especially when his full understanding of it was confined to word of mouth and the basin they lived in.

And, in any case, the Tesseract was back on Earth - however far away that was.

Then, when he had run out of things about himself, Ađalbjörg told him a little about Brimer.

It wasn’t much, aside from how he kept the frost giants around his mountain under his thumb with a threat none of them could face. She wouldn’t say what it was for fear, he thought, of what he would do with that information. Even magically bound to her, it was something she would not divulge. Brynja had told him more than her mother did, but even she didn’t know everything. She warned him that Brimer was not to be trifled with and that he could turn to rage at the slightest provocation.

“Mind your tongue, Stígandr,” she warned him.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, lying through his teeth.

When the last elk ran, the silence was all-encompassing. Steve’s ears rang and he followed Ađalbjörg up to the main-house where Birgir and Brynja were rushing about to prepare a spot for the king.

They had brought out a tall table that dwarfed Steve, and chairs that he would need a ladder to crawl up to sit in, and dishes of all sorts to decorate the table. Some of his polished bone had been whittled into utensils and some horns had been turned into cups. At the head of the table, where Ađalbjörg usually sat, the space was left open. She took a seat to the left hand and Birgir took a seat to the right. Brynja sat beside her mother and Steve sat beside Birgir. The giant jostled him with a finger and grinned.

“Now you will meet Brimer, the Storm king,” There was a strain to the giant’s voice, despite the wide grin.

Steve nodded and held his tongue. As they sat, food laid out in front of them, and waiting in the quiet, a great booming came from the mountain.

It came in groups, like marching feet, and Steve sat up straighter. Whoever Brimer really turned out to be - whether Brynja’s caricature of a grizzled old man, Birgir’s image of an honorable but frightening king, or Ađalbjörg’s depiction of an blind tyrant with a hunger for life - Steve would face it head on.

The booming grew closer and closer, until it shook the slats of the main-house and Birgir let out a quick breath. Then the doorway was covered in shadow and a giant twice the size of Ađalbjörg stooped with a grunt to come inside. He was dressed like a viking, with layers upon layers of cloth and fur, a thick leather belt across his waist and sturdy boots. An axe larger than Steve’s body was hanging from his belt and his hair had been cut away from all but his face and the top of his head. The hair at the top was gathered in a high ponytail, held by a metal cuff. His beard hung down to the center of his barrel chest.

 

All of his exposed skin was the color he would expect on a human like himself, the vibrant pink unsettling in this icy world. A drawback from this image of humanoid life, aside from the size, were the scar-like marks decorating his right arm. They gave off an air of decay, like the carcasses that Steve had been forced to prepare in the storehouse. Brimer slouched and limped as he made his way to the head of the table and they all averted their eyes. Steve, curious to know what kind of threat Brimer would be, kept a steady gaze on him. As Brimer settled in the chair, he breathed out slow.

“The Midgardian has no manners, Ađalbjörg,” Brimer’s voice was deep and steady, almost hypnotic in it’s calm. “Avert his eyes from me or I will remove yours.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Steve had never seen her so timid. “Stígandr, look away.”

Steve did as he was told, if only because he still didn’t have a read on Brimer. Every so often, he would glance up and take in what he could see.

Brimer’s right side looked deformed, more scar than skin, and his jaw was skin and bone. He wore a vertical skull half-mask over the right side of his face, the eye hole completely black. The only eye that was visible was his left, which was milky white. He reached out for some of the food but Steve never saw him look at it. He guessed, as Ađalbjörg had said, that Brimer was blind.

“Ađalbjörg,” Brimer said, chewing a bit of mammoth. “I have lost many wolves of late. Are you not keeping to your bargain?”

She looked at Steve and he recalled his wolf’s head hood. He hadn’t thrown it on in his haste to see what the commotion was this morning. She spoke. “I have broken no word, your majesty. My oath to you is still true.”

“Hmm,” he crushed a bit of glow-weed in his palm and licked it. “I sense you do not lie, nor do you tell the whole truth.”

“I have killed no wolf, nor broken my oath. You know this to be true.”

“What I know and what has happened do not match. My wolves do not return to my mountain, and you have a Midgardian at your dinner table,” he downed a horn of whatever passed for drink here that was not water. Steve had wanted none and the giants had not offered. “Even _I_ can see the ties between them.”

“Majesty, I...”

“ _Ađalbjörg_ ,” Brimer cautioned, raising his right hand. She fell silent. “The souls beneath your roof belong to you, as the souls on my land belong to me. Tell me, who is this Midgardian who dares look upon me?”

Ađalbjörg swallowed. “He is Stígandr. His kind acquired a relic from Odin’s vault and put him here.”

“An exile?” Brimer inquired, leaning towards Steve, who kept his eyes locked on the opposite wall. “He does not look like much to fear. Why would they send him here?”

“He fought in wars that spanned the whole of his world. He was a soldier of immense strength.”

“He does not look strong. The Midgardian is puny.”

“On his world, he was very strong. And on Jötunheim....” she met Steve’s eyes and he nodded to her. “On Jötunheim, he has survived ten full cycles.”

Brimer sat back in his chair, his food forgotten. He did not look at Steve but there was a feeling like bugs crawling over his skin. Steve said nothing.

“He does not look worse for wear despite his small size. Are you sure of this?” Brimer seemed more curious than commanding and Ađalbjörg relaxed a bit.

“He gave me his name. I compelled the truth from him. Stígandr is not like other Midgardians.”

Brimer was quiet for a moment, but with a small, imperious nod, he came to some decision. “I will take my payment from him.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Ađalbjörg began, swallowing. “But we have your usual payment ready.”

Brimer waved her off. “Keep your meager offerings. I warned you I would take the living when I returned. I will take my payment from this Midgardian and not from your feeble husband. Birgir has no more battles to give me, no more fight to claim. Stígandr, if you speak true, will have fight enough.”

Steve couldn’t help himself, he turned and looked at Brimer. “Let’s see.”

Brimer chuckled, dark and humorless. “Yes, he will do nicely.”

Ađalbjörg squared her shoulders and Steve saw Brimer tilt his head in her direction. “Your Majesty, I have taken his name.”

Brimer shrugged. “Then you will give it to me. I will have your Midgardian.”

“Majesty,” Birgir began but Brimer stood and slammed his fist into the table. In the clatter of all the dishes leaping up and settling back down in disarray, the Storm king shouted.

“ _I will have him!_ ”

Steve braced for battle, eying the distance between him and the nearest knife. As Birgir sunk to his knees to beg forgiveness and Ađalbjörg attempted to placate the king, Brimer raised his fist.

“I will have your Midgardian and I will have your daughter, too!” He swept out of the house without a glance back. Snow blew into the open door and so did three Storm giants, brandishing lit torches and massive circular shields.

Birgir and Brynja screamed, fleeing towards the other side of the house in terror. Ađalbjörg threw daggers of ice at the Storm giants, taking one down with a well-aimed throw to his head. The others rallied and pushed forward, their torches blazing bright orange in the darkness of the cave. It was not the heatless blue flame that Steve had grown used to, but a normal fire the likes of which he and the Howling Commandos would have gathered around for warmth.

“Run, Brynja!” Ađalbjörg ordered, keeping the Storm giants and their fire at bay with walls of ice. The fire melted it almost as quickly as she cast it.

Steve scrambled away from the stomping feet of the Storm giants who paid him no mind and dodged their errant swings to reach the side of the house where Brynja said she had found his shield. _In my mother’s things_ , he recalled and he dug through the pile in the corner closest to where he saw Ađalbjörg the most. Amidst powders and bones and strange stone tablets etched with some ancient language, he found his shield resting against what looked to be two swords. He grabbed his shield and shoved his arms through the straps, then grabbed one of the swords. Ripped almost to shreds, his uniform was buried under a pile of bones. He hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, but there was nothing he could do with the red, white and blue. As he turned, he saw his compass, sitting beside a polished stone. This time he didn't hesitate. He shoved it into his boot.

Ađalbjörg was pinned down in the back of the cave where the light didn’t shine and the only thing keeping the flames from her was the ice wall she was maintaining in front of her. Birgir and Brynja had fled out the door and though Steve was sure that they weren’t going to get very far if Brimer had brought any more giants with him, he had something more important to worry about.

Part of him hesitated. He could let them have Ađalbjörg and he could have his freedom. He could turn and flee like Birgir and Brynja out the door. He might have a better chance getting away than they would, being that he was so much smaller than they were. He could escape now like he had wanted to earlier today. But he stood behind the Storm giants with shields like his and torches, and he saw in a flash how much like them he would be if he ran.

A bully with a big stick, or a man with an open door. He made his decision instantaneously.

Steve threw his shield at the nearest one, and ducked under the arm of the other, stabbing at heels and the backs of knees. He managed to snag his newly acquired sword on one’s knee and jerked it free as he caught his shield, spinning away. The giant cried out and took a knee, dropping its torch. Steve proceeded to use his shield like brass knuckles, pounding away at the giant’s face. Red blood sprayed across his own and he felt as if he had stumbled upon a rainstorm in the desert. The strangeness of taking comfort out of being covered in blood, even if it was the first _real_ warmth he’d felt in a long time, stunned him for a second. It was enough for the other giant to swat him into the opposite wall and it knocked the breath from him. As he slid down the wall, gasping for air, the giant on the ground moaned.

“Hjörtur!” the giant cried, reaching out aimlessly as his blood had washed out his sight. “It’s blinded me!”

Hjörtur paused in his stride to get to Steve and turned back to the giant on the ground. “Hallbjörn, get up, you idiot!”

“My knee...”

“Curse your knee!”

“The little beast has taken my eyes! My eyes!”

Steve gulped in a lungful of air as soon as he could and sat stunned against the stone wall for a moment. Ađalbjörg took advantage of the Storm giants distraction to move beyond her corner and attack Hjörtur from behind. A jagged blade of ice erupted from his chest and he collapsed to the ground. Hallbjörn swung his arm from side-to-side, trying to find either his shield or his torch. Ađalbjörg stepped up next to him and brought her long black nail across his throat. His neck turned black and it spread until his face was frostbitten and he slowly fell dead.

A moment of silence that seemed to stretch on for lifetimes dominated the wrecked house and Ađalbjörg turned to him. “Can you survive a cycle without bleeding?”

Steve is confused by her words, he’s not bleeding. Except there is a metallic taste in his mouth and his chest aches. He tries to get to his feet and slips back to the ground. The movements make him feel like he’s got little knives floating around inside him.

“Be still, you fool,” she crouched in front of him and held her hand over his torso. “Those brutes broke your ribs, Stígandr.”

“Is that what that is?” He groaned, gasping in another breath.

“We have no time for your sarcasm,” she grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. Steve groaned, but stayed standing. “They will have taken Brynja and Birgir. We will not have much time.”

“Was it your plan to let them get captured?”

“I do not need to be worrying about them right now. We must leave this place, before...”

Ađalbjörg’s words were cut short as a volley of torches flew into the house. They caught the furs and every piece of wood. As the flames rose, Steve pushed at Ađalbjörg’s hands, but she pressed them against his chest and ice encased his ribs. It helped to distract him from the pain but he knew he wasn’t healed.

“When we get outside, stay behind me. We must flee to the river. Brimer’s men cannot bear the cold.”

“And _I_ can?”

“Better than you know.”

The fire was getting closer to them and Ađalbjörg swayed, getting nearer to Steve. Or, he noticed, _shrinking_.

“We need to move,” Steve pushed until Ađalbjörg responded, leading the way towards the open door. Seeing that it was the only exit, Steve was ready for the inevitable attack. “Grab a shield.”

“I do not need their primitive...”

“Yes, you do. The fire will melt your ice. Wood takes longer to burn.”

“You want me to _hold_ the fire?”

“It’s better than being _on_ fire. Now grab a shield,” Steve kept his up as he waited for Ađalbjörg to retrieve one. It was mildly charred already, but not actively aflame.

“This is the most imbecilic idea I have ever had,” she muttered, stepped back in front of Steve.

“Well, if Brimer’s half as bad as you say, then it’s worth it.”

“Tell me that when this is over,” Ađalbjörg moved forward, crouching slightly behind the shield. Steve was a bit disoriented by how she gradually fit behind it more and more.

“You’ll grow back, right?” he asked and she chuckled darkly.

“I am not a damned tree!”

“That’s too bad,” Steve followed Ađalbjörg out of the bottleneck of the doorway. “I had a wish to make.”

Brimer had brought a small contingent of Storm giants with him and they stood just a bit away from the house with torches aloft. Steve and Ađalbjörg were _allowed_ to exit the house. Steve knew it by the fact that they got out without being fired upon.

“I have let you live on my lands, let you raise your little frost family on my doorstep, for too long,” Brimer announced, his hand resting on his axe. “It’s time for Laufey’s kind to be removed from Stormlands!”

A rousing cheer greeted his words and Steve’s eyes darted over them all, searching for Brynja and Birgir. They were nowhere in sight.

“I have served you faithfully for all these cycles, Brimer,” Ađalbjörg called, holding the charred wooden shield close. “You betrayed us, as you have the rest of my people.”

“Betrayed you?” Brimer laughed long and loud. “You served no purpose in Utgard, so you ran to me. Your kind had no right to seek refuge here, but I welcomed you. I let you live on my mountain, on my lands. And how am I repaid?”

“With _everything we have_!” Ađalbjörg shouted, and many of the Storm giants raised their torches as if to throw them. “We’ve given you everything and yet there are fewer Frost giants on the Mountain of Brimer than there have ever been. This basin was crowded with my kind and you have taken them all!”

“ _It is my land!_ ”

“And it is _our lives!_ ”

“Burn them! Burn them all!” Brimer shouted and as the Storm giants advanced on them, the Storm king stomped away towards the way he’d come.

“Run for the river!” Steve shouted, and Ađalbjörg listened, charging off.

Steve turned to the many Storm giants and got to work.

The first one he came to tried to reach down and pick him up but he lashed out with his sword and cut away the giant’s fingers. It howled and more turned to him, throwing their torches into the storehouse until it too caught fire. There were at least ten of them and as Ađalbjörg got further away, he made sure none of them could follow. Steve aimed for eyes and extremities, cutting away and stabbing anything that was bare. Red blood covered him until he was nearly dripping with it and he drew more, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs as the heat from the fire began to melt the ice. He would regret it later, he knew, but right now was about making sure they got away to fight another day.

The giants were tough and even though he took out an eye or removed a few fingers, they were still coming. He was retreating more and more as the fight went on and he knew he had to do something. The river was just behind him, through a dense wooded area. If he could lose some of the giants in the woods, he could make a break for the river and hope Ađalbjörg had gotten away too.

One giant kicked him and though he blocked the hit with his shield, it threw him back quite a few yards. He landed on his side and his ribs exploded with pain. His breath caught and he struggled to his feet, fighting his own body to make it move. He had to get away. He had to put distance between himself and the giants before they crushed him.

“This way, Stígandr!” he heard Ađalbjörg call for him and he turned in her direction without even really knowing which way that was.

Stomping footsteps filled the air behind him and were getting closer. Steve ran as fast as he could, dodging between the trees in a way that he knew the giants couldn’t, ignoring the increasing pain in his chest as he aggravated his wounds. The treeline thinned as he got closer to the river and he shot out of the woods and onto the frozen surface, sliding across it with his momentum until he lost his balance and fell to his knees.

The Storm giants were right behind him, slowing now that they knew he had nowhere to go. They laughed, loud and excited, covered in their own blood. He watched them, trying to catch his breath.

“King Brimer is going to enjoy you, Midgardian,” one of the Storm giants sneered and Steve offered them a smug smile.

“Not likely.”

From beneath him, the ice cracked and broke open, swallowing him whole. He saw, in the brief moment before he was completely submerged, Ađalbjörg rising above him, taller than ever. She sent the very river after the Storm giants and they were no match for her in the cold without their flames. They froze where they stood or were impaled. He watched them fall and sunk below the surface.

 


	7. Swept Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Present Day..._ **

 

Steve was incredibly warm.

 

Surrounded on all sides by something soft and covered up to his chin. He could tell he’d been washed, the smoothness of his clean skin sliding effortlessly against the rich fabric he was under. His hair was still long and so was his beard, but the hair felt airy and light, not weighed down by dirt and gore. He smelled of apples. He also noted that he was completely naked underneath the sheets and wondered who had brought him here.

 

Pushing himself up to sitting, Steve looked around the room. It was golden all over; from the ceilings to the floor, the baseboards, the walls, even the furnishings. Everything gave off an impossible extravagance, a sense of wealth that no mortal could hope to achieve. Centuries of dominance oozed out of the air itself and he untangled himself from his silk sheets slowly.

 

This wasn’t the prison he thought he was going to wake up to. He had assumed, somewhere down the line, that the Asgardians would put him back behind shimmering walls when they had healed his mind. It was why they had taken him out in the first place. He hadn’t completely agreed to their proposition of returning to Earth to find their princes, so he supposed he would be put back in his cell. Of course, he had agreed to at least _see_ Earth again before he made a decision. Maybe they were going to placate him until they had his word that he would find their wayward children.

 

 _Loki_ , he remembered, seeing now what he had been unable to before. The tall, thin prince had cursed him to forget about the seeing him on Jötunheim, about the deal that he had made with Laufey, about the subterfuge that would undermine his plans for ruling Asgard. It seems that even without Steve’s knowledge of Loki’s deception, the prince had gotten his comeuppance. He barely remembered Thor, aside from a rather explosive meeting between his hammer and Steve’s shield.

 

Steve rolled to the side of the far too soft bed and got to his feet. The ground was slightly chilly, but he had lived through much colder conditions than a cool floor. Padding barefoot towards the door, he tried the handle. His tentative tug had the door swinging open in his direction and he stopped it before it could get too far, peering out into the hall beyond it. To either side of the door there were Einherjar posted with spears. They did not turn to look at him and he watched them for a moment, before closing the door again.

 

They didn’t seem worried that he was going to start a fight, but they wouldn’t have been posted there if the Asgardians trusted him. Then again, he didn’t trust them completely either.

 

On a table near to the bed, they had laid out clothing for him to wear. Everything was a shade of dark blue aside from the underthings which were white. He began a slightly arduous process of putting it all on. There were leather pants that laced up in the front, a long-sleeved tunic that fell to mid-thigh and was bordered by delicate silver designs, a wide belt that felt more like armor than simple clothing, a long flowing overcoat and boots that stopped just below his knee. Once dressed, Steve felt a little more human, though the strangeness of the constant warmth left him feeling on edge.

 

He looked around for his shield and his fanged gauntlet, but they weren’t anywhere in the room. So, they were smart enough not to arm him until they were sure he was trustworthy.

 

The guards at the door stood at attention as he crossed the threshold and he crossed his arms. “Am I free to go?”

 

“You may explore this area with an escort, but you are required presently at the Mead Hall.”

 

“Alright,” Steve nodded, and rolled his shoulders as he tried to get used to the new clothes. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 8 cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Ađalbjörg’s face was the first thing Steve saw when he came to, though it was bathed in darkness. Wrapped in furs that reeked of smoke, Steve realized he was lit up by orange light. He looked to where the warmth was coming from and saw that a small fire had been erected beside him. His ribs had healed a bit, though they were by no means fully recovered. They might not have even healed in the right way. He frowned, pulling his arms from the furs and coughed, his throat dry and scratchy.

 

“You didn’t have to build a fire,” Steve rasped, rolling onto his knees and sitting back on his heels. Just within reach, she had left a small bowl of water. He gulped it down quickly. Shivering as the icy liquid went down his throat.

 

“You were turning blue,” Ađalbjörg called, remained very far from the fire. “Your kind is not meant to resemble mine.”

 

“True,” he cast off the furs and climbed to his feet. Taking a moment, he looked around the ruined basin where the storehouse and the main house were nothing more than smoldering wrecks. “Are they gone?”

 

“Brimer has returned to the mountain,” she told him, watching as he began to come closer to her.

 

“So, _do_ you have a plan?” Steve’s mind was already alight with them. The storm giants were vastly different from the frost ones and he knew that the conditions in the mountain had to reflect that. Despite the obvious magical elements of Brimer, he had the ability to handle fire, the normal-looking skin, relatively normal clothing, real weapons. He was closer to Steve and humans than the frost giants. The housing in the mountain had to be more bearable for himself at the least.

 

“We must find Brynja,” Ađalbjörg asserted.

 

“What about Birgir and the others?” Steve asked, having to crane his neck back to keep eye contact with her. She had reclaimed her former height.

 

“She is more important than any of them.”

 

“No one gets left behind. If we go in, we’re going for everyone,” he rewrote the plans in his head and crossed his arms. He’d done this kind of thing before. Purpose, an old familiar friend, settled on his shoulders and he stood differently.

 

“I am not courting war with Brimer, we do not have the strength.”

 

“So we don’t go in loud,” Steve proposed, “I’ll go in, scout the kingdom, find your people. I’ll find a way to get them out quiet. We isolate the storm giants, small skirmishes that we can hide. You stay here near the river, I’ll send your people out and you can gather here.”

 

“We cannot take on Brimer from the edge of a river,” Ađalbjörg pointed out, looked out past the mountain to somewhere beyond. “We must go to Laufey.”

 

“I thought you left Utgard for a reason,” Steve was eager to hear the story from her as he had heard it from her daughter.

 

“I disagreed with his decisions, Birgir was not fit for battle any longer, and I had a young daughter. I would not allow my daughter to be influenced by the fools in Laufey’s kingdom.”

 

“So you chose the countryside?” he asked with a smile and the tension in Ađalbjörg drained a little.

 

“At the time, Brimer offered us an opportunity for something new, something peaceful. I was never one for war, not even in Utgard. For some time, this was a land of promise.”

 

“What changed?” _Land of promise_ , he thought, feeling incredibly uneasy at the similarities to his home. They put their own behind fences, too. Both physical and social.

 

“Brimer made a pact with someone, something powerful. He was not always so mystical.”

 

“If he’s got an ally, we need to watch out for them.”

 

“It is not his ally that we must fear. Brimer has gained strange powers of foresight, he will know something is coming,” Ađalbjörg gazed back at him distractedly. “He will know something has happened when his men do not return with you.”

 

“I’ll go to him,” Steve assured her, nodding. “If he wants me, he’ll have me.”

 

“Above all, you must free Brynja.”

 

“I’ll do more than that.”

 

“This was not the way I meant for this to go.”

 

“What did you originally plan?”

 

“To find a way into the mountain, most likely by giving you to Brimer with orders to memorize the layout, then take that information to Laufey. Brimer would have killed my people in the mountains before Laufey’s arrival, but...perhaps we would still have justice.”

 

Steve looked to the ground, thinking of the sacrifice Ađalbjörg was willing to make to take out Brimer. It was something he would have done, except he would have sacrificed himself not his people. Still, he saw his captor in another way. There was only one thing that kept them on an uneven keel.

 

“Release me from whatever controls me.”

 

Ađalbjörg stared at him, curious. “Would you weigh my people’s lives against your freedom?”

 

“Will you?” he asked, meeting her gaze.

 

A moment of silence stretched between them until Ađalbjörg looked away. “You will aid me without being forced?”

 

“I don’t like bullies,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “I don’t care where they’re from.”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Present Day..._ **

 

The Einherjar had escorted him to a large hall that had many large tables lined with food. It was something he had never seen on Jötunheim. Instead of clusters of giants crouched together with their food in megalithic stone structures that crumbled in chunks all around them, the Mead Hall he had been taken to was in perfect condition, if almost completely devoid of life. The walls were as golden as the ones in the room he woke up in, and the plates and goblets were as well. Fruit and meat and vegetables covered the center of the table, piled in small mountains of abundance. Steve stepped forward before he thought about it and the guards spun on their heel to leave him to enter it further.

 

At the head of the table, wearing light golden robes with cream accents and a conspicuous lack of armor, Odin the Allfather gazed back at him calmly.

 

“Midgardian, please join me,” Odin was standing with his hands folded in front of him and though he said the words as an offer, Steve could recognize an order when he heard one.

 

Steve made his way towards the Asgardian king, a sense of bitterness in his throat like bile. If it weren’t for Odin, he might have been on Jötunheim with his people. The realization that he was in effect lamenting his own missed chance at death was shoved deep down. He came to a stop near to the king, but far from close enough to lash out.

 

“Why am I here?”

 

“That is something we should speak about,” Odin nodded to him and took a seat. He held a hand out to the chair in front of Steve. “Please.”

 

Twice he had asked him nicely, given him the hint of a choice. Steve hated that he felt the barest bit of respect for the man in front of him. All he had ever heard of this man was from the mouths of frost giants and though he doubted he had been lied to, there was the thought that perhaps both images were wrong. The Jötunn were not without fault in their own imprisonment, and perhaps, the Asgardians were not just their ill deeds.

 

He settled into the seat and laid his hands on the table. “Will I still be able to see Midgard if I don’t agree to help you?”

 

“Yes,” the king reached for a goblet and drank from it. “You have my word, you will see Midgard.”

 

Steve nodded, his jaw working as he tried to decide what he wanted to hash out first. There was so much. “Did you plan to let your sons destroy my world?” _One of my worlds; before you sent them to my first_.

 

“No, it was never my intention to allow these things to come to pass. Laufey and I had a truce. We had gained peace. Loki’s actions do not reflect all of Asgard. It was...”

 

“If you’re gonna say it was the actions of a boy...” Steve interrupted, but Odin raised his hand and he stopped talking.

 

“It was the failure of a father,” Odin finished mournfully. There was a heaviness to the king and Steve thought of someone else. Someone with a horned crown made of ice. _Ađalbjörg_.

 

“Tell me more,” he demanded, knowing that he was riding a fine line. But if they wanted his help, they needed to explain why he should _want_ to help them.

 

“Laufey was Loki’s father, before I saved him from certain death on Jötunheim.”

 

“What?” Steve frowned, leaning forward on his elbows. Something nagged at him, like a forgotten memory.

 

“He was small and unwanted. Laufey left him to die. I found him and brought him home to Asgard. We raised him as our own,” Odin seemed pained and his words were measured, the story unfolding slowly. Steve kept quiet as he listened. He knew this story, though not in the way it was being told. Something cold settled in his heart as he tried to remember why.

 

A small boy, dark and with an origin kept hidden, who contrasted so dramatically with his brother, who was bright and with a clear lineage that could be traced in the stars. Both intelligent, both capable, both with very different destinies in the end. Steve’s own bias interfered with his reception to a young and playful Loki, who Odin portrayed as a mischievous child that dearly loved his family. He embraced the brashness of Thor, for it is all he knew of him. Thor embodied pride and the wild enthusiasm of a puppy, crushing things without thinking about where he placed his feet and expecting welcoming arms anyway.

 

“The Loki I knew...he was out for himself,” Steve began, twirling a golden fork in circles. He had purposefully ignored the knife. “He was on Jötunheim long before he sent us to the vaults and he came back after. He offered Laufey a chance to end you.”

 

“It was ploy to gain my approval. To create of himself a hero the likes of which I would choose to take my place in the future.”

 

“He wanted to be your heir,” Steve said plainly what Odin had. “I thought that was Thor.”

 

“I believed them ready for the burdens. I was proven wrong.”

 

Steve looked to the table in front of him, and rested the fork back down. Frigga had explained to him a little of the royal family, but she had kept it brief because his mind wasn’t completely whole yet. Now that he had found out more, he started to understand the answers to many of his questions. Why did it fall apart like it had? Why was Jötunheim the target? After everything he had been through there, how could it all just be _gone_?

 

“We had just finished a war,” Steve admitted, clenching his fist. “It was a sort of civil war.”

 

“I would not think them capable of a civil war.”

 

“No, um...an _in-house_ war. The frost giants and the storm giants.”

 

“You fought in this war?” Again he was being appraised for his value in battle and Steve sighed. He was weapon to anyone who saw him, a thing to point and shoot.

 

“My people’s lives were in danger. I wasn’t going to stand-by and let them get hurt.”

 

“Your people? How did the frost giants come to adopt a Midgardian?”

 

“I helped them get home when I couldn’t. I made friends and somehow we became a family. I found an army, something familiar, and I served like I always wanted to. I was trapped there for so long...I stopped searching for a way back to my home and made one.”

 

“We took that away from you,” Odin acknowledged somberly and Steve closed his eyes.

 

He could see them all now bright and clear. Brynja and the ones who had survived the escape from the mountain. _Ólafur and Eiríkr_. The soldiers who he had surrounded himself with, the battle fervor as they rallied to defend their own, the honor of reuniting a group of people under one hopeful banner. _Ragnheiđr, Sverrir, Þórvaldr._ _Hjördís_ who guided Brynja and Ađalbjörg in magic beyond Steve’s understanding. His family...all gone.

 

“I don’t...I’m not sure it’s hit me yet,” he whispered, tears building in his eyes but they felt weak and superficial. How do you mourn the loss of a world with just salt tears?

 

He felt the voids where his frost family had resided like gaping wounds that even the serum couldn’t heal. He remembered that he couldn’t get drunk and stared at the goblet in front of him. Beside it was a jug and he eyed it for a moment before reaching out for the goblet. He downed it in one and refilled it. This was Bucky all over again and when he had found a moment to himself to say goodbye to Earth so many years ago on Jötunheim. This was losing everything that mattered in one fell swoop and being told he had to carry on. Steve was once again left holding the world with both hands and his heart bleeding out of his chest. He swallowed gulps of the amber liquid that he supposed was mead until he felt a little dizzy, but it cleared up a few moments later.

 

“You may reside in Asgard for as long as you wish,” Odin was saying, but Steve was determined to wash everything away. He laughed a little when the king’s words registered.

 

“You might not want to keep me,” he said breathlessly, refilling his goblet again. “You might wake up and have _your_ kingdom destroyed.”

 

Odin hummed lowly, watching him with his only eye, but Steve felt like he was being examined with more thoroughly. “When you are ready to see your world, Heimdall will gladly show you. Until then, Midgardian.”

 

Steve had more to say, more to lay out on the table, but Odin was rising and he couldn’t think of more to say than, “You got anything stronger than this?”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 8 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Steve felt free in a way he hadn’t since he had arrived on Jötunheim. Ađalbjörg remained by the river and he was ranging far up the mountainside to find an entrance he could sneak into. She had warned him of Brimer’s supposed foresight and he didn’t doubt her, but he kept himself nimble and didn’t stick to one series of moves after another. He didn’t stop moving and he didn’t go where he knew he would be expected. He knew well about purposeful weak spots, meant to draw in the enemy. The last thing he needed was to have to take on a group of giants alone. He was strong, but if his healing ribs told him anything, it was that he had to pick his battles.

 

 _Don’t do anything stupid_ , he could hear Bucky saying and laughed to himself at the thought. _Everything I’ve done without you has been the most idiotic, even acting in tights_.

 

The release from Ađalbjörg's spell had loosened his hold on his memories and he gave himself time to feel them. Even if only for a little while. He let himself imagine for a brief moment what Bucky would think of him in a dead man’s clothes running up a mountainside to pick a fight with _literal_ giants with a _sword and shield_. He could hear the sighing now. _You just had to find someone bigger, huh?_

 

He followed the huge footprints from a distance, sprinting across the gradual rise until he lost sight of the footprints in the snow. He scaled down a large crag, his fingertips the only thing holding him up in certain spots, the toes of his boots sliding into every hole he could find. It was a slower process than he had initially assumed, especially because everything seem magnified until even the landscape was giant-sized. He had already noticed with the trees and the wideness of the river, but the mountain was bigger than any he had ever seen on Earth. The wind picked up as he followed the footprints and the snow pricked at his skin like Brynja’s little tormenting trick had. He thought of her, the one who had actually been almost kind, and wondered what Brimer’s men would do to her in their mountain. It couldn’t be anything good.

 

As he landed on an outcropping, a thunderous stomping came from deeper in the mountain and the ground shook beneath his feet. He started to move, worried that he had been spotted, when a deafening rumble began. It was louder than the running of the elks and Steve covered his ears, working his way out from under the outcropping. Something, right behind his sternum, told him to go back, to get back behind the shelter of rock and he did, climbing a bit back up the steep wall.

 

Just as he put a little distance between himself and the ground, the rumble grew until he could hear nothing else. It was like a train was going right over him. He didn’t dare look up or do anything but cling tightly to the wall. A river of snow rushed above him and to either side, pushed by inertia down the mountainside heedlessly. He could feel it building up around his legs, even though he was in a relative pocket of safety and it seemed to go on forever.

 

Fear rose up in him as the snow started to reach his back, his shoulders, and his grip on the wall was slipping from the weight pulling on him. He clung tighter, forcing himself to hold on a little longer. Slowly, his feet were pulled away and his body followed. His focused on his arms, on his hands, on remaining out of the flow.

 

The wave swelled, full of larger chunks of ice and one rolled his direction, clipping his right side.

 

He was swept away in a haze of white.


	8. The Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Approximately 8 Jotun cycles ago on Jotunheim..._ **

 

Everything was dark. He managed to bring his shield up in front of his face so there was a pocket of air, but as the snow settled he realized that would go fast. His first problem was that he couldn’t tell which way was up and which was down. Catching his breath, Steve calmed his racing heart and tried to think logically. The snow on every side of him was holding him tight, securely burying him on the mountain. If was going to go, he had already decided, it was going to be in battle or back on Earth. He wasn’t going to die in a damned avalanche.

 

A thought hit him and he let saliva gather in his mouth, spitting it straight ahead. It fell where he aimed it, so he must be facing downward. He had to turn around and dig up. Not an easy feat considering the fact that he was insulated on all sides with very little wiggle room. Just like he had done when he landed in the river, Steve used his shield to make a bigger area to work with, carving a pocket for him to hopefully coil into. The snow gathered where he dug it out and any major shifting forced the snow to settle in various parts of his body. He pushed down with the shield and up with his shoulders, lifting the shield so the snow could get beneath it and starting again.

 

The snow was building up layers beneath him and he was forcing his way up, until he breached the top layer and cold wind swept into the hole. Letting out a short breath, he pushed the snow off of him and out the hole, scooping until his fingers were a bit numb. He had to pat down the snow in front of him until it was packed and a little more sturdy, then he shoved his shield into it and started to remove his legs. He must have settled at an angle, because they were further down than anything else. Snow was seeping into any open part of his clothing and he hissed as it met his skin.

 

With a great effort and a final push, he managed to yank himself up and out of the snow. He rolled away from the crater his body left behind and caught his breath again. He laid his head back against the snow, breathing and fuming.

 

If Brimer thought he was going to be that easy to get rid of, he had another thing coming.

 

Steve flipped up off the ground, ensuring he had his shield and his sword, and started back up the mountain. He’d lost a little ground in the avalanche, but now he was going to be a little less cautious. The king knew he was on the mountain, so Steve was going to head straight in.

 

The footprints had been washed out in the avalanche, but Steve knew roughly which way they had gone. The freshly cascaded wave of snow had changed the landscape enough that if it weren’t for the peak of the mountain in the distance, he might not have known where he was.

 

He kept the peak in front of him and started again.

 

In the skies to his east, dark clouds had begun to form and were headed in his direction. He sped up.

 

Steve was forced to hunker down in an ice cave to rest and he curled in a ball with some of his fur beneath him, waiting out a blinding snowstorm. It had come almost without warning, sweeping in like a wall of shadow, obliterating anything in its path. He sat in relative silence, wrapped in charred furs and planned.

 

Most of his plans weighed on what Ađalbjörg knew of the kingdom of Brimer. If his halls weren’t a hive that protected the Sacred Fire, the source of their weapon against the frost giants, then he had his work cut out from him. He felt like he was getting close. Something in him was tugging him downward, as if to tell him he was headed in the right direction.

 

 _I’m coming_ , he promised them, but only the screaming wind answered him.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Present Day..._ **

 

They did, in fact, have something stronger. Aged for a thousand years, the smell was a tad horrendous, but Steve thanked the attendant who had brought it and downed it in one. It burned like lava going down his throat and he coughed as soon as he was sure he wasn’t going to retch it back up. The attendants watched him, equal parts wary and curious, and kept him well supplied. He drank fast, hoping maybe he could outrun his metabolism. Aside from a consistent dissonance between what his eyes were seeing and his response time, he was still too sober.

 

He waved the attendants away and they vanished almost like ghosts, their airy clothing billowing behind them. In the silence of the Mead Hall, surrounded by empty abundance, Steve could feel a ball of something growing in his chest. It drew from deep inside of him and expanded outward, filling him up until he felt like he was about to explode. He had felt it before in the dungeons, an aimless fount of energy that needed an outlet and he couldn’t find one.

 

Steve drank some more, gritting his teeth and sucking the excess off his bottom lip. The burn sank down inside of him and his stomach roiled. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the food, to partake of Asgardian bounties, and he despised the fact that the drink in his hand was Asgardian, too.

 

Furious, he threw his goblet across the room. It clattered loudly against the floor and the liquid spilled out. The noise vibrated through him and he snapped, shoving the food away from him. He kicked his chair and it flew into the opposite wall where it banged but didn’t leave a dent. Nothing he did left a mark.

 

He couldn’t scream, he wouldn’t, and the act of swallowing it down burned more than the mead. It was all he ever did, when he lost again and again. He took the pain and he shoved it down, rising back up in spite of it. It was what he had to do before the serum, against bullies, against sickness, against life itself. No matter how many tragedies visited his life, he had no recourse but to continue, ceaselessly - a soldier marching on through the mortar fire, the rain of bullets, the rows upon rows of white tombstones that rose before him in waves with each footstep. He held his shield and he fought, he rallied armies and he watched them gain victory or suffer defeat, and if no one else escaped the field - he would. The war must go on.

 

Self-loathing surfaced above everything else and he held his head in his hands, wanting nothing more than to crush it to dust. Giants had tried, Asgardians had tried, and still he stood in the remnants of their attempts without wounds. He had never hated feeling invincible in his entire life.

 

He didn’t hear anyone enter the Mead Hall, but someone’s hand fell on his shoulder. Without thinking, he gripped the person’s arm and flipped them to the ground in front of him, pressing his knee onto their side. A portly man with red hair huffed out a breath in astonishment, staring dazedly up at Steve.

 

“Next time, I’ll knock,” the man quipped and Steve glared down at him, releasing him with a shove and stalking away. As the man rolled to the side, a couple men came to his aid. With them all together, Steve remembered them again. _The Warriors Three._  He looked closer to the door, expecting Lady Sif, and was not disappointed. She had her arms crossed and she was leaning against the doorjamb, watching him with an indiscernible expression.

 

“What do you want?” Steve snapped, pacing away from them all. If he never saw another Asgardian again, it would be too soon.

 

“Sif was telling us you might enjoy a few rousing fights on the sparring grounds,” The tall, moustached one explained, grunting as he tugged his friend back to his feet. “Volstagg thought it wise to _touch_ you.”

 

“It was a friendly gesture!” Volstagg groused, brushing off his clothing.

 

“He is one of the _haunted ones_ ,” the dark-haired one said softly, his hands relaxed at his sides. He met Steve’s eyes and there was an understanding in them that Steve found himself unable to rage back at. “They are not wholly among us.”

 

“He’s a ghost?” Fandral asked, a smirk on his lips. When no one smiled, he shrugged. “I’ll save my humor for those that appreciate it.”

 

“Enough, all of you,” Sif interjected, uncrossing her arms and advancing. She had eyes only for Steve and he watched her come closer with a bit of resignation. “Rogers, you will come with us.”

 

“Is that an order?” he taunted, his hands balled into fists.

 

Gently, Sif raised her hand and held it aloft between them. “Come with us. You will find no peace here.”

 

“Maybe I don’t want peace. I’m a weapon,” Steve felt the mead receding from his system and without the blur of alcohol, clarity made his pain more acute. “Maybe I _want_ war.”

 

“Then fight with us,” Sif offered, holding her hand out further.

 

Steve stared at her, this strong woman who had pressed his buttons from the very start. She reminded him of his mother, of Bucky, of Peggy, of Brynja. She was the call to battle that he could never ignore, the need to continue that found its way even in the darkest places. She was the moon-berries for the dark caves, a beacon to cling to. He blinked and tears rolled down his cheeks.

 

“Where’s my shield?” he asked her, hesitating.

 

“At the sparring grounds, if you wish to reclaim it,” Sif’s face was calm and inviting. She waited for him to decide.

 

Slowly, he stretched out his hand and clasped hers. Her grip was strong and he felt himself shift towards her strength. “What do I get if I win?”

 

“We shall see, when or _if_ you win,” Sif smiled and Steve felt a lightness seep into his chest, relieving the tension that had been boiling over.

 

As the Warriors Three and Lady Sif led him out of the Mead Hall and back out into the maze of halls, Steve breathed in and out. He focused on that and nothing else, save for Sif’s hand in his.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 8 Jotun cycles ago on Jotunheim..._ **

 

The entranceway to Brimer’s kingdom was a set of massive doors formed from solid rock, embedded in a recess of a cliff face. To either side were sentries, wrapped up in heavy furs and standing beside braziers that lit up the immediate area. Steve stayed well out of their range of view, using the shadows to his advantage and his light-footedness. The giants were mostly silent, doing nothing more than huffing and shifting from foot to foot. Steve stayed nearby, close enough to the doors to get inside them, but not trapping himself behind the giants.

 

The blizzard had coated everything in a thick layer of snow, but the freezing temperatures had hardened it. Steve had to mindfully place his feet so that the snow wouldn’t crunch beneath him.

 

He burrowed himself against the darker stone, wrapped in the black fox fur that Ađalbjörg had salvaged from the fire. He could fight, but he wanted to conserve both his energy and his body until a real fight was needed.

 

Steve breathed out slow and settled in, waiting for them to change guard.

 

* * *

 

 

Getting inside Brimer’s kingdom was a simple matter of sticking extremely close to the shuffling feet of the storm giants. They were looking at each other’s faces and not down where he was sticking close to their brethrens feet. He danced through legs like the trees down by the river, and as soon as the doors slammed shut behind the retiring guard, he slipped away from them and back into the shadows.

 

“Ugh, I’m starving,” The tallest giant complained, rubbing his stomach. He was missing three fingers. Steve ignored his own hunger. He had only had water since they burned the houses and no food had survived.

 

“My brother saved me a whole mammoth from the feast, if you want some,” the shorter of the two giants said, stomping into the bowels of the castle, a torch held aloft.

 

“Oh, I would _kill_ for some mammoth!” He whooped, patting the shorter one hard enough to send him careening towards the wall. Steve flipped backwards out of the way, holding his breath as the tall giant frowned in his direction. “You smell that?”

 

“I don’t smell anything but your stinking feet,” The shorter one shoved the taller one and started walking again. After a moment of hesitation, wherein Steve braced for battle, the other giant followed.

 

He let them go for a while, until he was well out of their torchlight, before joining them in their journey.

 

The halls of Brimer’s kingdom were rough-hewn stone walls that were mostly dark and branched off in a thousand directions. The only light Steve had seen were the torches that the giants carried. Outside of that was an impenetrable and oppressive bubble of pitch, so Steve remained with the duo until they came to a sort of main crossroads. Here, Steve could not follow.

 

It must have been a chow hall, because of the tables and the food set out. There weren’t many giants populating the tables, but the area was well-lit. He stopped just outside the reach of the light and watched the giants enter the hall with relieved sighs. They put their torches in sconces lined up on the walls and took their places at the table. A giant similar to the shorter one greeted them from the end of the table and tossed chunks of meat at them. Steve’s mouth watered at the smell of cooked meat and mead, but he couldn’t risk the danger of being seen. He clenched his fist and backed up a little.

 

He needed to find the frost giants, but he had no idea where to start. Ađalbjörg had told him to feel for them. Aside from the tug he had felt before the avalanche and the urge to descend he had felt while waiting out the snowstorm, he wasn’t exactly sure what she meant. He had vaguely been able to _feel_ Ađalbjörg when she had him under her sway, but he had no magical connection with anyone else. He was used to relying on more... _practical_ skills.

 

Sighing at his own stubbornness, Steve pressed himself flat against the wall just in case any giants came by, and closed his eyes. He breathed in and out, searching for something he had no idea how to recognize. Many times on the battlefield with the Howling Commandos, Steve had felt something he supposed was similar, but it was without a name; something that made him duck to avoid a sudden hail of bullets, a surety in the accuracy of Bucky’s aim from up on a hill behind him without looking, the hesitation he felt before an ambush. Someone, somewhere, was looking out for him. He had always thought maybe it was his Ma or his Pa, watching him from heaven or something. He hadn’t had to search it out or worry if it would come through; Steve had trusted that feeling without inspection and it had served him well.

 

Now, he had to reach out for it and he found himself doubtful. _Magic is real_ , he reminded himself, pressing his palms against the stone and trying to embrace that fact.

 

“I’m here,” he mouthed, soundlessly, and let himself sink into the unconditional trust of Bucky at his back, the Commandos on the field, the strange assurance that he wouldn’t die in a back alley even if he was two sizes too small to take on his opponent.

 

A pure, expanding thing formed inside his chest and he breathed it in, reaching into the call he felt and answering.

 

“I’m here,” he repeated, his lips barely moving.

 

 _As are we_ , a multitude of voices responded and Steve jolted out of his trance. The giants in the chow hall were silent and a shadow had fallen over the light in the doorway.

 

“ _You!_ ” a giant shouted and Steve took off.

 

The darkness was no longer oppressive, if only because he now had a beacon to follow. He turned without thinking, outrunning the giants purely by the suddenness of his movements. Running blind had never been a particularly enjoyable experience, especially because it felt like was going to ram into a solid stone wall at any moment, but Steve kept his eyes closed and clung to the call he felt in the depths of the mountain. The thunderous footsteps behind him receded and he seemed to jet through the darkness, led by faith and trust alone.

 

If this was magic, he could see why Ađalbjörg used it. There was something _higher_ about it, a pull to something _greater_ than himself. He had felt this his entire life, but not like this. As he ran through Brimer’s kingdom, he feared nothing at all. His mission would succeed and he would free the frost giants. It felt like fact and his plans were memories of how he had done it. He was untouchable.

 

* * *

 

 

In all fairness, it was his first time with this kind of thing, so he wasn’t too hard on himself as he leap across a chasm he couldn’t see and fell straight down.

 

In the free-fall, Steve’s connection to this strange purpose snapped. He opened his eyes to the sight of clear waters that glowed blue from deep below and had just enough time to gasp in a deep breath before he slammed into the water. It was downright _warm_ and he kicked back up to the surface, drenched but incredibly pleased that he hadn’t almost leapt to his death.

 

“Eyes open,” he muttered to himself, swimming for what he hoped was dry land.

 

The underground pool had a gentle flow that Steve swam against, and the walls were coated in bioluminescent algae that he might have seen in the storehouse, if in a dried form. He aimed for the nearest bit of rock that was above the water’s surface and he pulled himself up and out of the water. The air was even warm down here, and he slogged up a craggy path to a smooth plateau that overlooked the water. The weeds were huge and shown like spotlights beneath the water. He wrung his hair out and took off his boots to empty them out as well, taking in the alien scenery with a calmness he hadn’t felt since he landed here.

 

His furs were heavy and he sighed, tugging them closer and staring at a random spot on the wall.

 

“I’m here,” he said aloud, reaching out once more. This time, he thought of Brynja and Birgir only. He thought of them both until Birgir’s face slipped out of his scope of concentration. Instead, just as Ađalbjörg had said, _must find Brynja_ , he focused on her. “Brynja, I’m here.”

 

A spike of recognition flared in his awareness and he looked straight up. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there.

 

“I’m coming for you, be ready,” he warned her, shoving his boots back on and starting for the nearest scalable wall.

 

* * *

 

 

He knew he had reached the frost giants when a blue hand shot out of the dark and grabbed him, yanking him through what he realized was a small crack in the wall. Steve had his sword ready anyway, held like a dagger with the point down and he held it aloft as he took in his new surroundings.

 

At least fifty pairs of red eyes stared at him and he didn’t recognize any of them.

 

“Where’s Brynja?” he demanded, trying to wriggle out of the grip of the giant holding him. The giant who had pulled him through the wall was older, like Birgir, and poked Steve curiously.

 

“What are you?” The giant wondered, tugging at his shield.

 

“Tell me where Brynja is!” he shouted, and stabbed down with his sword. It pierced the giant’s skin, but he hadn’t done it with enough force to cause real damage. As the frost giant grunted and released him, Steve landed easily on the balls of his feet, then squared up and eyed them all. “Tell me where Brynja is, _now_!”

 

“Stígandr!” came her familiar voice from somewhere behind the room he was in.

 

Rushing through the crowd of frost giants who watched him with confused frowns on their faces, Steve found the front of what looked to be a big cell. The bars were metal, but the spaces between them were more than big enough for Steve to fit through. He sheathed his sword and sidled through the gap, sprinting across a space lit by a single brazier. The hall that stretched beyond the brazier was empty and Steve watched it closely.

 

The next cell was smaller, but in this one there were only giantesses. Brynja was nearest to the bars and she pulled him up to her chest the moment he got within reach. “Oh, I thought I had imagined you! Where’s mother?”

 

“Outside the mountain, by the river. Is this everyone?” Steve looked past Brynja’s shoulder to the other giantesses. There were three. They watched him just as warily as the frost giants in the other cell. “Where’s Birgir?”

 

Brynja set him down and sat in front of him. “Stígandr...Brimer took him days ago.”

 

“Alright, let’s get him back. Where does he take them?”

 

“To the Queen, his benefactor,” one of the other giantesses spoke up and the others shushed her.

 

“His queen, Nedra?” Steve asked, his arms akimbo. Brynja hadn't known much about her, so neither did he. Ađalbjörg had barely mentioned her.

 

“No,” Brynja whispered, shaking her head. He had never seen her so afraid. “The Death Queen.”


	9. Sparring Grounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Present Day..._ **

 

The sparring grounds were in the open air, with a stunning view of a sprawling kingdom bathed in sunlight. Towers rose into the sky, gleaming metallic monoliths that reflected the natural light and illuminated the surrounding areas. Statues bigger than the Empire State Building were casually dotted around important entrances and exits, gigantic likenesses of what Fandral enthusiastically informed him were heroes of Asgard. Only one stood out to him. _Bor_ , he knew already, though not as the statue portrayed him. He heard whispers in the screaming wind, humming in the cascade of snow, and the lure of an oncoming storm. Silver boats floated weightlessly through the air like cars, laughing Asgardians seated in them and relaxing without care. Everything was a shade of gold or green, shot through with silver. There were trees and flowers in bloom, and the sun was warm on his skin.

 

Steve made his way down the steps to the sparring grounds, his boots sinking a little in the sand that served as their floor.

 

“I’ll take you on first,” Volstagg announced, removing his cloak and handing it to an attendant.

 

“I don’t get to pick?” Steve asked, calmer than he really felt. He was itching to have his shield back and maybe even one of the swords he spotted on a rack. The metal of the blades looked like polished steel and was very reminiscent of the one he had on Jötunheim.

 

“Not for your first battle!” Volstagg guffawed, taking a massive axe that Steve remembered from another attendant.

 

From Steve’s elbow, someone cleared their throat. “Your shield, sir,” a young man offered softly, meeting Steve’s eyes for more than a second. He was dressed like all the other attendants and, as Steve gladly took his shield, the man bit his lip. For a moment, Steve assumed he was going to say something, but he only drew in a sharp breath, ducked his head, and hurried away.

 

Watching him, confused, Steve saw the young man’s cheeks redden the longer he looked. The young man shifted from foot to foot and it clicked in Steve’s mind. _Oh_ , he thought and blinked, _Oh_...

 

He unconsciously straightened his spine and settled his shield, glancing a little at the young man. He hadn’t had that kind of attention in half a century. Sif stepped into his line of sight and he looked at her.

 

“He’ll want to show his prowess now that you’ve bested him,” she commented, her voice pitched low.

 

Steve glanced again at the young attendant, but Volstagg’s boasting voice made it clear that Sif wasn’t talking about that. He turned to where the largest of the Warriors Three was swinging his axe like a baseball bat, warming up. He sighed, but nodded to her, heading towards where the swords were. As he drew nearer to them, he felt more control, as if the weapons being there calmed him. The second he reached out and grasped a sword, his mindset changed.

 

His shoulders lost their tension, breathing felt like reclaiming the territory inside of himself that had been overtaken by grief and sorrow, and he felt invincible. His head lowered and he looked up at Volstagg without emotion. Across from him was not an Asgardian on a simple sparring ring, but a wall to tear down, a mountain to climb, an obstacle to overcome. Steve felt light on his feet as he stalked toward Volstagg and he raised his shield to ward off the first attack. The metal rang as the axe collided with it, but he remembered a hammer, heavy and crackling with a thousand storms, bearing down on him and he found the axe wanting.

 

With a twist, he angled the axe away and slashed out with his sword. The tip met armor and scratched against it in a high pitch screech. Volstagg, having realized this would not be an easy fight, squared up with a bit more dedication. Steve’s lips formed into a smirk and he laughed.

 

“Is that all you’ve got, Asgardian?”

 

Frowning, Volstagg charged him with a battle cry and Steve met him in the middle in silence, letting the clang and scrape of their weapons fill the quiet. There was something about this that brought a fire to Steve’s heart and he didn’t hold back at all, knocking Volstagg back with the flat of his shield and slicing at him with the sword. So far, he had only managed to shred the Asgardian’s clothing, but he wanted blood. This was how battle was done on Jötunheim, this was how he survived. Fight and draw blood, just as the storms would not spare his skin and the wildlife would not hesitate to end him. Either he fought the world or the world would win.

 

Up above, out of Steve’s eyesight, the king and queen gazed down at him. Lady Sif glanced up to the queen, who nodded, and Sif tapped Hogun on the shoulder. He looked to her, the queen, then shook his head, but stepped into the fight. His mace was smooth and it smacked roughly against Steve’s unprotected back.

 

Whirling, Steve parried the next swing of Hogun’s mace with his sword and blocked Volstagg’s jabbing blow with his shield. He skipped backwards, putting space between himself and his two opponents and slowly eyed them both. He had taken on larger foes and in greater numbers. This would be no different.

 

Pacing sideways, Steve put Hogun and Volstagg on the side of the grounds where Fandral and Sif were waiting in the wings. If they wanted to join in, they wouldn’t be able to sneak a hit in with his back turned. It had been foolish to keep his back to them to start off with. Lunging forward, Steve left himself wide open to both men, but he ducked backwards before they could hit him, spinning out of a slide to clip Volstagg behind the knees with his shield and Hogun with his sword. Hogun saw it coming and met his attack with his mace handle, locking the sword with spikes that suddenly appeared from it. Steve pushed off of a fallen Volstagg, who grunted and kicked out at Steve’s shoulder, catching him enough to off balance his attempts to free his sword. He was pulled by the hold Hogun had on his sword and he flipped sideways, twisting the Asgardians arm until he was forced to relinquish the grip he had and Steve was able to reclaim his sword.

 

A light sheen of sweat was forming on Steve’s skin, but only a light breeze was there to cool him and he struggled a bit with realizing there wasn’t going to be a winter wind to freeze him where he stood. That world was gone.

 

Volstagg had found his feet again and Steve ran forward, raining down a series of slashes and kicks at him. The axe served as Volstagg’s shield and he let Steve run out his volley before he responded. The axe was heavy, but Volstagg swung it with very little effort, the sound thick in the air as it rushed toward Steve. He blocked it with his shield and was forced to give ground, the weight of it alone enough to make him hunch down just to withstand it. Hogun waited until Steve was ready to attack, then sprung forward, swinging the mace at a much faster speed and using his maneuverability to strike Steve beneath the protection of his shield. The first blow to his thigh drew a grunt from him, the second to his knee drew a cry. Still, he wouldn’t be outdone.

 

Steve let Hogun get ready for another swing, then shoved his shield forward, catching the Asgardian in the chest. Hogun flew back at the force of it to land on his feet a yard or so away. Volstagg lifted his axe, but Steve spun, stabbing out with his sword so Volstagg would block and leave himself open for Steve’s drop-kick. As soon as Volstagg hit the ground, Steve flipped back up and into the waiting sword of Fandral, who held the blade just millimeters from his throat.

 

“Good show,” Fandral complimented him, a roguish smile on his face. “But I think you’ve done enough.”

 

“Not nearly,” Steve grit out, flicking his eyes down to where his blade was angled at Fandral’s exposed armpit.

 

Fandral followed his gaze and a sort of stunned expression transformed his face. “Well done.”

 

Steve retracted his sword and stepped back, Fandral sheathed his own and Volstagg and Hogun stepped forward.

 

“I am impressed,” Volstagg announced and despite the moment in the Mead Hall, he smacked Steve on the shoulder with a heavy hand.

 

Hogun nodded to him, but did not touch him. “You are skilled, but untrained.”

 

“Do not insult the man,” Fandral admonished but Steve shook his head.

 

“Are you offering?” Steve asked Hogun, who eyed him closely.

 

“Are you willing?” was his answer.

 

Sif walked toward them and Steve turned to her. “You didn’t fight.”

 

“I watched,” she said simply and Steve frowned.

 

“Next time, _you_ first.”

 

Smiling, seemingly despite herself, Sif inclined her head in acquiesce. “I will not go as easy as them.”

 

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Approximately 8 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Death Queens apparently complicate matters.

 

According to all reports from the frost giants, she was not someone to bargain with nor was she someone that Steve could fight. There was a reason that Brimer could foresee certain events and there was a reason he looked the way he did. The kingdom of the Storm giants belonged _truly_ to the one they called Hela, the Queen of Hel.

 

Steve had danced with death all his life and he wasn’t about to stop now. Besides, if he didn’t keep his word and get the frost giants out of Brimer’s mountain, then there was no way that Ađalbjörg would take him to Laufey and he would have no frost giants to vouch for his abilities or loyalties. He would be back in the same boat he had just gotten out of and Steve was done with people having magical reign over him. He decided he would deal with this Death Queen and Brimer, despite the warnings of the frost giants. First, though, he was going to need help.

 

“I can’t fight Brimer and his men alone, I’m going to need help. If I find a way to take out their fire and give you all an exit, will you fight with me?” he proposed to the group of frost giants and there was an uncertain murmuring about them all.

 

“How do we know we can trust you?” one shouted, stomping forward to be seen past the others. The frost giants, admittedly, looked very much the same upon first glance, but Steve was learning to tell them apart. This one was younger than the one that had grabbed him with shrewd eyes and was a shade darker than most of others, with a strange fin-like protrusion of that green material on his shoulder.

 

“I know I haven’t earned your trust,” he told the giant, stepping forward. “But I’ve earned Ađalbjörg’s who released me from her magic so I could come save you. I earned Birgir’s who I plan to save if I can. And I earned Brynja’s, who can tell you I didn’t join their family willingly.”

 

“My mother took his name,” Brynja informed them and they looked to her. “He came from the sky in a beam of light, like an Asgardian, and I saved him from Brimer’s wolves.”

 

“You _killed_ the storm king’s wolves?” One of them asked incredulously. “But that’s forbidden.”

 

“I saw him first!” Brynja argued, frowning deeply. “Not everything belongs to that...that _Bor_.”

 

A couple of the giants clicked their tongues and flicked ice from their fingers as if casting off something vile. Steve was confused by it, but it wasn’t important.

 

“I killed three wolves myself,” Steve admitted aloud and the giants looked to him. He supposed they were searching for his wounds or some sort of proof.

 

“He heals like nothing I have ever seen,” Brynja told them, coming closer to Steve and he let her. She flicked her ice at his face and his skin turned black before gradually healing. The giants whispered amongst each other and Brynja offered Steve an encouraging smile. “My mother believes Ymir sent him to help us. I believe this as well.”

 

“Ymir be damned!” One of the frost giants cursed and a few stepped far away from him. “You’re all thinking it.”

 

“Ymir is punishing us,” the old one who had grabbed him moved to the center of the cell and all of them listened. “We left Utgard and our king, we abandoned our rightful homes and Ymir has given us what we deserve.”

 

“I had three children, Ólafur,” the one with the shoulder-fin interjected, squaring up to the older one. “Brimer and his heartless Queen took them all. My _children._  Ymir has no place punishing _anyone_.”

 

“Eiríkr,” Ólafur began, his voice weary.

 

“No,” Eiríkr raised his hand and turned to stare at Steve. “Stígandr, if you are taking on that bastard king, I will join you.”

 

A few others made noises of agreement. Brynja and the other giantesses immediately agreed as well. For the rest, Steve eyed them.

 

“If you don’t want to fight, I can’t ensure your safety. My priorities are to get you out and to Ađalbjörg by the river, but if you will not join me it will be harder. We can overthrow the guards together, create chaos and escape, or we can go quiet and hope we can sneak out. We can’t do both.”

 

“What _is_ your plan?” Eiríkr asked, stepping up to the bars.

 

“Their advantage is that this is _their_ stomping grounds. We’re out of our element, literally in your case. They have fire, which I can work around, but you can't. We need to get you to the river, it’s an endless source of power for you,” Steve was thinking now, plotting how this was going to go now that he had a little more information. “There’s glow-weed back the way I came, we can use it to mark a way out.”

 

“Only the guard can open these doors,” Brynja stated, planning just as he was. “We need to capture them.”

 

Steve nodded. “I’ll get the guard.”

 

“First we need a way out,” Ólafur reminded them and Steve turned to Brynja.

 

“I’m going to go get glow-weed and I’ll be back,” he let her lift him again and press him against her chest.

 

“Be safe, Stígandr.”

 

* * *

 

Steve dove down from the hole Ólafur had pulled him in from and swam down until he could grasp the weed and pull bits of it free. It bled pale blue goo into the water and he surfaced with it painting his gloves. One of the other giants had offered him a hollowed out horn and he scraped the weed into it, repeating this until he had the horn full. It glowed rather bright, but he used a bit of fur to cover the top and tucked it against his chest. A bit of blue shone through from his sternum until he shifted the furs and hid it from view. He washed his gloves clean in the pool, but some of it remained on the center of palm where he had scraped the most. It would just have to stay.

 

He scaled the wall once more and was braced when a blue hand shot out to grab him. It was still Ólafur, but the old giant set him gently down this time and Steve thanked him.

 

“Do any of you remember the way you were brought in?” Steve asked, hoping to perhaps narrow his search.

 

“I know a bit,” a younger giant said quietly from the back. He was only half the height of the others.

 

“Alright, tell me everything you remember.”

 

* * *

 

**_Present Day..._ **

 

Now that they had somehow broken some unnamed tension between them all, the Warriors Three and Sif had no problem leading him around Asgard. He had been forced to relinquish the sword, but they allowed him to keep the shield. A cross harness was brought to him that allowed him to settle his shield on his back. It was so much like his original suit that a strange sensation passed over him, as if he were sliding into someone else’s skin.

 

They showed him the throne room first and Fandral animatedly explained what had happened leading up to the moment in the vaults. Steve asked him for more information and he had gladly launched into a rather dramatic recreation. A coronation of the favored prince interrupted by an attempt at theft. Steve remembered everything from a different point of view and he still had not decided to aid the Asgardians with finding their sons. He could tell them no now and save himself a lot of trouble. But Sif and Frigga seemed to think he would at least give it thought and he found himself reluctant to deny them that.

 

“Frost giants,” Fandral whispered, his hand to his chest. He was standing before the empty throne and the others stood at the base. “And the Allfather rushed out of this great hall to the Vaults, Thor and Loki in tow.”

 

He descended the steps hurriedly and paused in front of Steve. “I doubt you’d want to revisit them.”

 

It wasn’t said cruelly, but Steve looked away. “Not today, I’m actually enjoying your company.”

 

Fandral hummed and Sif’s hand curled around Steve’s bicep. For a moment, he thought she was holding him back, but he realized it was her keeping him grounded. He turned his head to look at her and she smiled gently up at him. “At least one of us is.”

 

Steve breathed out a laugh and pressed his hand to Sif’s. “I’ll admit, it’s a bit like theater, but I need to know.”

 

“So you shall,” Fandral promised, grabbing him by his bicep as Sif had but using it to pull him along. “We’ll skip the Vaults. Let us ride to the Bifröst; Heimdall can explain more of what happened next.”

 

* * *

 

 

They rode horses down the Rainbow Bridge and Steve dismounted with a bit of hesitation. This was the thing he had wanted to avoid. Though he did want to see Earth again, even if he never went back, he had given up on it. To have the chance to try again, _fifty-five_ years later, felt like reaching out into a void and hoping for a miracle. Terror rose up in him and though he normally would resist its hold and push through, he found himself frozen beside his borrowed horse. He could see the strange spiked globe ahead and the heavily armored man with a large sword, but he could also see every nightmare of Earth he had ever had. Every dystopia crawled up into his consciousness and he balked at the idea of having to see the Earth he abandoned, at having to find a way to return to something he wasn’t sure he understood anymore.

 

What if Earth was controlled by Hydra? What if they hadn’t won the War? What if they had? They’d have buried him by now, mourned him and moved on. Steve had found a way to move on himself, lived for Jötunheim as if he would never leave. Now, on the edge of something he would have begged for so long ago, Steve wanted nothing more than to run.

 

Sif stepped in front of him, raising her hands to either side of his face. Her touch sent a jolt of warmth through him that was completely different from Frigga. He didn’t feel calmed, he felt enlivened. He came back to himself with a concerted effort. He raised his hands to hers and held them there.

 

“What if they hate me?” he asked, not of the people of Earth, but of those that might have survived. Peggy and the Commandos. “I left them when they needed me most.”

 

Sif’s eyes stared into his own and if it weren’t for the Warriors Three shifting ahead of him, Steve would think it was only the two of them on the bridge. “If you abandon them now, you will _deserve_ to be hated. I will admit to selfishness. I am forbidden to travel to Midgard to find Thor and you are offered the chance I wish was mine. But Rogers, if I were to be kept from Asgard for nearly a century, there is no other place I would want to be.”

 

Tears came to his eyes again and Steve hated how easily he could break apart. He was supposed to be the defense and he couldn’t even defend his own emotions from spilling out. “I buried Earth ‘cause it hurt too much to hold onto. Decades passed and I _knew_ I would never leave  Jötunheim. It can’t be this easy.”

 

“You doubt we would see you home?”

 

“I doubt I...” _I don’t deserve to go back_ , Steve thought to himself, _I failed Earth, I failed Jötunheim...I _ can’t _go back_. “I doubt my luck will hold out.”

 

He tried to keep a sob inside him but it came out anyway, broken and more a whimper than anything. Sif pulled him forward and he pressed his face into her neck, hugging her tight. His tears came without end and he couldn’t stop himself from letting them fall. He breathed in Sif’s scent and let himself break a little against her unwavering embrace.

 

He had screamed and raged on Jötunheim, begged and pleaded on his knees in the snow, fought and battled for a way back home but none had come. He had gone from fight to fight on Jötunheim, thinking for so long that he could make it back. When it became clear that he wouldn’t, that he was stuck, that Jötunheim wasn’t a temporary derailment but a permanent exile, Steve had gone out into the snow with the intent to not return. He supposed in some ways he hadn’t. Standing here, on the edge of everything he had shouted for from alien mountaintops, Steve felt like a sinner at the Gates of Heaven.

 

He had never wanted something and feared it so much in his life.

 

“Rogers,” Sif whispered to him, her voice raspy when pitched so low. “You could live a thousand years on Asgard, but you will never forgive yourself if you do not at least _try_.”

 

 _You never give up, do you?_ he hears clearly in his head, accented and meant as an insult. Something in him rises, bright and clear, and he sighs against Sif’s shoulder.

 

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters might be Jotunheim-centric, just to follow through on what goes down there and get back to the present for good. Once the Jotunheim section is done, it's full-steam ahead on the rest of the story. So, just a heads up.


	10. Unauthorized Night Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer one this time. It kind of took off on its own. *choo-choo*
> 
> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)
> 
> Chapter title from the Captain America: The First Avenger [ soundtrack ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPhdi7pwXW8)

**_Approximately 8 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

Fannar, the young giant, hadn’t remembered every turn and in the act of turning his path around, he admitted he might have messed some of it up. Steve thanked him anyway, memorizing the barebones of the path and leaving it to change as it would inevitably be. He headed out with his glow-weed and followed along the wall in the direction Fannar had said. His stomach was gnawing on itself, having not been fed in what felt like days. He was just going to have to hurry up.

 

The mountain of Brimer was a maze, but Steve was tenacious and he was creating a map in his head, starting from the cells and working his way out. He refused to close his eyes, wary of a drop into something less inviting than a warm pool.

 

As he ran through the dark, his fingers running along the wall to keep himself oriented, Steve thought back to another rescue mission he had undertaken alone. The motivation was different then and he didn’t feel the urgency he probably should have now. Of course, he wanted to save the giants, to find Birgir and to get them back home, but the fire that had lit inside his bones back on Earth was gone. He knew Bucky was gone, had known that when he had set about crushing Hydra, but there was a stillness to Jötunheim that didn’t allow for anything but self-reflection.

 

It was something Steve found himself _extremely_ adverse to. He didn’t really want to think about Bucky. He had allowed himself, in small doses, to entertain the illusion of Bucky, but it was always with an edge of humor. What would Bucky think to see him now? What kind of snarky remark would he have made? He started to think of Bucky’s face, a familiar sight that he remembered with crystal clear clarity, yet felt stiff and empty in recollection. A beacon of life had vanished from inside his soul and he tried his hardest not to notice it. Bucky was out there somewhere, even if only in his mind, and Steve didn’t have to cry anymore. He could bury it down with the rest of his grief and carry on. There was no other option.

 

A world without Bucky wasn’t one he wanted to live in. _Maybe I would have crashed that plane, if I hadn’t come here_.

 

He ignored the irony that Jötunheim definitely had nothing resembling Bucky, not even a corpse out in the snow.

 

His mind turned to Peggy, who he was certain had been sitting at a console, waiting for his word. She would have been waiting in vain. Would they have sent out a search party for him? His blood _was_ valuable. Of course, they had taken samples of it already, maybe they didn’t need him. The Commandos would be devastated, as they had been by Bucky’s fall. Would they even know he was gone? Maybe they thought something had happened with Schmidt. What if they thought he was a POW? How long had he been here? The growth of his hair gave him a sort of reference, but he hated to think of it.

 

Ađalbjörg had told him he had been with them for three cycles. Was that three years or more? Would Utgard have a way back that Brynja and her family didn’t know about? It was all he could hope for. If Brynja was right and he couldn’t leave this place...he wasn’t sure he could handle that. Never seeing Earth again, left to wonder and dread in the land of eternal winter...he didn’t want to think about that as his future. Laufey would have something and he would trade his good deed here for a one-way ticket home. There was still time to stop Hydra. Schmidt’s only recourse had been to crash the Valkyrie but Steve knew he wouldn’t have risked his own life like that. There was a way out for sociopaths like him. He would have formed a new plan when Steve wrecked his first.

 

The feel of frigid air on his face brought him to a stop and he turned his thoughts away from the past. He would deal with that when he got back.

 

He followed the cold air until he came to a balcony carved into the top of a cliff, overlooking the guard post he had entered and the long trek he had made up the mountain. Standing in the darkness and breathing in the cold air, Steve looked toward where he knew the river to be. It was too dark in the distance to make out anything but the beginnings of the woods, but Steve was sure that Ađalbjörg was there waiting. Once more, he didn’t have a radio to call for a ride. He would just have to march back.

 

Ducking back into the caves, Steve began the process of marking his way back. The glow-weed painted the wall at his height, a simple handprint with his fingers pointing in the way to go. The path back to the cells was slow, if only because he had to mark turns in easy to see places and the pale blue light emitted from the horn at his sternum made him feel like he was waving a lit cigarette at a sniper. He was expecting the storm giants to come charging after him.

 

“Stígandr,” Brynja whispered as soon as he came around the corner. “The guard is coming soon, you have to hide.”

 

“No more hiding,” he shook off the worry of being found and drew on his need to fight. “The path is marked, it leads to a balcony. Once you get going, don’t stop for anything. Head straight for the river and Ađalbjörg.”

 

“I’m fighting with you,” Eiríkr swore, stepping closer to the bars. “We should end Brimer here and now.”

 

“That is foolishness!” another giant shouted and they began to squabble amongst each other.

 

Sighing, his hands on his hips, Steve drew in a deep breath and shouted as loud as he could. “Enough!”

 

As soon as he had their undivided attention, he met Eiríkr’s eyes. “We only go after Brimer if we have to. Until we have back-up, charging into the center of _his_ kingdom is suicide.”

 

“You think I care?” Eiríkr asked, laughing.

 

“I don’t care if _you_ care or not. I’m here to save you, not convince you to be saved. Just know that your need for revenge could get more giants killed. If that’s what you want,” Steve ensured he was being heard before continuing. “Then I’m taking you out after the guard.”

 

“Is that a threat?”

 

“If you make it into one,” Steve turned from the giant at the sound of heavy footsteps.

 

Steve crouched behind the brazier in the center of the cell area’s hall and waited as the guard approached. He was burly and had many daggers sheathed up the sides of his tunic. Hanging from his waist, jangling with every step, were keys as long as Steve was tall. Thankfully, he didn’t have a torch in hand.

 

“Who’s been shouting, eh?” the guard asked, his words slurred and his voice thick. “Who’s been causing a ruckus?”

 

Steve crept behind the giant, hyper aware of the fact that the giant could turn and stomp him at any moment and decided he needed a hand-up. He slipped back into the giants’ cell and pointed up. The one nearest him nodded and bent slowly until Steve could jump onto his palm. He hunched over as the giant lifted him and reached a hand through the bars. Steve was near level with the storm guard’s shoulders and he let out a breath before leaping.

 

He landed and nearly slid off, but caught a handful of the guard’s greasy hair and maintained his footing. With a choked shout, the guard’s hands came up to see what had hit him. Steve slashed out with his sword and the giant howled, scratching at his own head to get at Steve. Struggling to stay out of the giant’s grip, Steve stabbed at the giant’s head, drawing blood but not causing enough damage to kill him. He crawled around the giant’s head until he could get him close to the bars and shouted to Brynja.

 

“Grab the keys!”

 

The guard jolted, realizing that thing attacking him could _talk_. He swatted at Steve, but Steve let himself slid down the guard’s shoulder to his collarbone and he jabbed upward. Blood, red and hot, bathed Steve and he kept at it. The same ferociousness that overcame him when he was fighting the wolves came back and he didn’t stop stabbing at the guard until he collapsed to the ground. Out of breath, drenched in blood and tussling with the desire to find another fight, Steve turned his gaze to Brynja.

 

“Do you have them?” he asked and Brynja held up the keys before working on unlocking her cell.

 

Steve sheathed his sword, hopping off the guard as Brynja crossed the space to unlock the giants. She skirted around the brazier delicately.

 

“Eiríkr,” Ólafur called, bending down to pick up the guard. “Help me throw him on the fire.”

 

“Are we trying to feed it?”

 

“His weight’ll smother it,” Ólafur waved his hand and grabbed the guard’s feet. “Now, help me.”

 

As the two giants lifted the guard, Steve got an idea. “Wait!”

 

Ólafur and Eiríkr stared down at him with frowns. “We aren’t burying him.”

 

“No, but we need his daggers,” Steve pointed out.

 

“Why?” Eiríkr demanded, looking mildly disgusted by the burden in his arms.

 

“Their fires will melt your ice, but they won’t burn their own weapons. If you cover it in ice and throw it, they’ll think they can let the fire handle it and leave themselves wide open. Ice melts, they get a dagger to the face.”

 

Blinking, Eiríkr looked impressed. “Good idea.”

 

Steve made his way over to Brynja as the giants began to spill out of the cells. A couple had already taken off, following his handprints. Fannar looked proud as he turned to Steve and asked, “Did I do good?”

 

“Better than good,” he replied and the young giant smiled wide. “Join the others while we have the advantage of surprise.”

 

“I’ll stay with you,” Fannar shook his head. “There is no such thing as surprise in Brimer’s mountain.”

 

As if drawn by the young giant’s certainty, a series of horns blew and the mountain shook. Eiríkr and Ólafur tossed the guard’s body on the fire and the others moved beyond it with sighs of relief. Brynja lifted him up and set him on her shoulder.

 

“Let’s go, Stígandr.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fanner turned out to be extremely right.

 

The storm giants were coming in droves to the cells and they had only just cleared out when they charged in. The shouts split the air and Steve urged the frost giants faster, clinging to Brynja’s icy crown. Moving at the speed of running giant made his trek look like a morning jog. They reached the balcony in staggered groups and Steve could see the first few giants leaping off to the ground below. With their height and constitutions, he was sure they could survive the fall. He braced himself for Brynja’s jump, but it never came.

 

One moment he was holding onto her crown and the next he was launched forward to land awkwardly on his back. His breath caught in his chest and Steve rolled over slowly. Giants were still running, escaping, but Brynja was vanishing out of his sight further into the mountain, a hand with strange designs around her throat.

 

“Brynja!” Steve screamed, ignoring the others as he sprinted forward.

 

From behind him, he heard something like a piece of ice cracking and a dagger covered in ice flew over his head. It embedded in the nearest storm giant to him and Steve kept running, not even gazing back to see if it was Eiríkr or Ólafur who had thrown it. He could no longer see Brynja, but he could _feel_ her, and he followed her through the mountain and into its depths without a thought. He fought any storm giant he saw that wasn’t taken out by the frost giants behind him. The horn of glow-weed burst against his chest as a giant landed a hit on him and he was covered in pale blue goo under his tunic.

 

He practically _glowed_ as he descended into the deepest parts of the mountain. He was finally Ađalbjörg’s _little star_.

 

* * *

 

 

The throne room of the Storm king was littered with bones, the stone of the deep cave worn smooth over time and decorated with the heads of frost giants. He glanced at them without recognizing any until he saw Birgir’s emotionless face. His breath caught and fury ignited inside of him. The kind giant had done nothing wrong, nothing deserving of this torment and disrespect. Steve supposed the others hadn’t either by virtue of their place beside Birgir in death. Fires were abundant and illuminated the space until it was almost like being outside in the sun. The frost giants fell back at the heat and Steve continued forward.

 

“Brimer!” he shouted, drawing the king’s attention to him. He didn’t look at Steve so much as gaze in his general direction but Steve knew there was something more to the storm king’s sight than merely his eyes. He presented a brave face, which wasn’t too difficult, and took in the situation.

 

Brimer had Brynja by the throat and he dragging her towards his jagged stone throne that was carved all over with strange sigils. Some of them glowed green. Brynja was shrinking in Brimer’s grip and the king lifted her easily as he approached a gleaming mirror on the wall beside the throne. He paused and as Brynja wriggled in his grasp, he chuckled.

 

“It is as I foretold!” Brimer boasted, laughing raucously. He lifted Brynja high in the air. “I would have this frostling, and I would have you!”

 

“So you’ve got me,” Steve called, coming closer as he glanced back to see the frost giants fighting in the hall. They would either be killed or spill into the throne room. There was no way they could hold that place, even with daggers and their magic. He took some comfort in the fact that only a small few had followed him. “Wanna see if I’ve still got fight in me?”

 

“I would _eat_ you,” Brimer snapped and reached for the mirror. Steve threw his shield, glancing off the shimmering sage green surface of the mirror and smacking into Brimer’s half-skull mask. It cracked and slid from the giant’s face as Steve reclaimed his shield. Beneath was the other half of his face, rotted and oozing black blood. He had no eye in that socket, nor did he have flesh on his nose, and his jaw was slack.

 

“I’ve heard,” he taunted, coming ever closer. Brynja’s eyes were wide and frightened. She could be no bigger than Fannar now. “I’ve also heard that I’m tough. Might not make a good snack.”

 

“So...you would challenge the Storm king?!” Brimer tossed Brynja aside and she collapsed against the throne. She was conscious, but weakened and stared at Steve in terror.

 

“I’d challenge _you_ ,” Steve wasn’t an idiot. He had a sword and a shield, but he didn’t have proper armor and if Brimer really had magical foresight, then he had an edge. But he couldn’t get home without Brynja and even without that motivation, Steve _would not_ leave her behind.

 

Brimer stomped towards him, reaching down to pull his axe from his leather belt, and hunched forward slightly. “I will send you to my Queen in _pieces_!”

 

The storm king was fast, his frame belying his agility and Steve barely dodged in time to keep his head. The axe was silver and heavy, creating a gust of wind with every swing. Steve avoided the attacks, making his way closer to Brynja. She was picking herself up slowly, barely more than five feet taller than him. He ducked behind a brazier and Brimer’s swing sent the smoldering embers up into the air. Thinking quickly, Steve knocked them at the king with his shield and sword, pelleting Brimer’s face. Screaming and brushing at his face, Brimer was distracted enough for Steve to get to Brynja.

 

“You have to run,” he told her, pulling her up to standing. “You have to get out.”

 

“There’s no way out,” Brynja gasped, pressing at Steve. “We have to kill him or he’ll kill us.”

 

Glancing at the mirror, Steve saw a pale woman looking back. He met her blue eyes through a curtain of her long black hair and she smirked at him.

 

For a long moment, he could not look away. She seemed to call to his very soul and he felt unmoored from reality. Steve forgot about Brynja, about the frost giants, about Brimer and the fight. He had eyes only for the woman in the mirror. She came closer to him as he stood frozen and he felt as if he had never had a mission more important than her. He met her in the middle, just as she stepped through the mirror’s surface and her hands hovered near him but did not touch. Steve did not force her; he couldn’t even if he tried.

 

“Mortal,” she said to him, her voice alluring and strong. “What are you?”

 

“A soldier,” he responded, mechanical and shuddered as she came closer. He felt as if she could have snapped her fingers and his body would lie dead at her feet. It was both a heady and terrifying thing.

 

“Why do you fight?”

 

“I need to go home,” his voice wavered and his shield dropped to his side. “I need to save Brynja and the frost giants.”

 

“You would kill to save another?” she asked it but he knew he did not need to answer. “You would _die_ to save another?”

 

“Yes,” he didn’t need to explain, his honesty was written on his face.

 

“Then you are of no use to me,” and the woman stepped away.

 

“Please,” he begged her, stunned by his own actions. “Don’t leave!”

 

“I have no use for the honorable dead,” she waved her hand dismissively and he felt reality come rushing into his mind.

 

Brynja was screaming and there was a heavy sound in the air. Steve turned in time to see a flash of silver before something solid contacted with his head and he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

 

Brynja’s second scream never left her throat. She was ironically frozen in place as she stared at Stígandr, who stood only by the grace of Brimer’s axe embedded in his skull. Half his face was mush, crushed by the weight of the axe, and the other half was splattered with red blood. His intact eye, which Brynja had likened to her mother’s blue fires, was empty and unseeing. He had been looking to the side, towards Brimer, and his eye had rolled slightly upward.

 

Brimer yanked his axe free with a squelch and Stígandr’s body fell limp to the ground.

 

Her heart sank and she looked further down the hall, to her father’s decaying face. She would die here...like all the rest. She closed her eyes.

 

At first, Stígandr had seemed Asgardian to them, smaller but no less powerful, and her mother had thought to use her magic to ensnare him into eternal servitude. Of course, that had not worked as planned, as they learned very quickly how tenacious a creature Stígandr was. He harped on and on endlessly about his beloved Midgard, or Earth, as he called it, and how he had to get back. For cycles on end, he beat himself bloody trying to find a way back.

 

Brynja knew, and her mother and father did as well, that there was no way off Jötunheim. The Warlord Odin and his ilk had stolen the Casket of Ancient Winters and with it all of the giants cosmic power. It was still a point of contention between the realms and one that would not be resolved by anyone on Jötunheim. They were cut off from the rest of the cosmos, and left to suffer in their crumbling world.

 

The ice used to _breathe_ , swirls of flakes that danced across thick icy walls and gathered in the high balconies wrapped around sturdy stone pillars. The air held within it a warning and a promise; the land was both hard and downy soft, both jagged and smooth. Courtyards aglow with blue fire that bounced merrily off glacial walls, lanterns of thin ice containing isolated flames hanging from decorative icicles all about. There were ballrooms and sculpture gardens, and all was opulent and in abundance.

 

Or so her father had told her as she was too young to properly remember it. But that was long before the Asgardians took the Casket, long before - like Stígandr - the giants were imprisoned here. Brynja loved her realm, even as it lay in defeated shambles around her, and she would not see her life lived on only one corner of it. She had to see the rest of it, and the remnants of those ballrooms and castles. Brynja longed to step foot in the history of her ancestors and relish in the power they wielded before their defeat. Her mother would never understand how much it meant to her, to embrace what they had accomplished despite having lost it all.

 

Because the giants had once ruled worlds, had once been royalty of their own, not lords of finite lands, and she longed to witness even a hint of it. For so long, so many had spoken of the greatness of her people and yet they languished her in this realm without end, and with no way to escape. As what made their home great was stripped from them, they had no choice but to allow it. They retreated, empty-handed, to their world and were never to step foot outside it again. All their greatness swept under the booted heels of the Asgardians.

 

Brynja wanted to restore the power to her people, to reclaim their place in the stars, and yet she - like Stígandr - could never leave this place. The desperation without an outlet made her sympathetic to Stígandr and his ceaseless struggle, for she, too, felt compelled to be some place else. So when she saw her mother had removed the oath from him, and after he had lost a great deal of his hope and she had also lost hers, it was as if her dream had come to life again.

 

But Brynja had seen clearly how Stígandr was breaking apart in front of them, aimless and empty-handed as the giants themselves. It was her own pain writ large in a small Midgardian. She took to Stígandr for their shared darkness and he seemed to care for her, if only in his quiet way, and as she saved him...she tried to save herself.

 

Now, she had done neither.

 

* * *

 

A hand touched his face, cold and hot at the same time, and Steve jolted awake. He was laying on freezing stone, without his shield or his sword, and he groggily blinked himself into awareness. The stone he laid upon was in a kind of throne room and as he rose to sitting, a ruddy brown wolf even larger than the ones he had encountered his first day on Jötunheim growled in his face. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, save for his eyes which narrowed. He stared down the wolf, unarmed, and waited for what he was powerless to stop anyway. It didn’t come.

 

“I should not have been able to claim you,” the woman informed him, her voice unaffected by his defiance. “You should have slipped from me to Valhalla. Instead, your soul _called_ to me.”

 

“I don’t know you,” he grit out, swinging his legs over the edge of the stone he was laying on. The wolf didn’t move, but Steve didn’t care. “I don’t want to know you.”

 

Smiling softly, as if humoring a child, the woman shook her head. “You will have more than enough time to learn.”

 

Steve hopped off the stone as the woman rose to standing and he found she was at a height with him. He came close to her and there was anger in him that he couldn’t identify. He wanted to rage at her like the winds of Jötunheim. She reached out and cupped his face. He saw his father, which was impossible as the man had been dead long before he had learned to walk; he saw his mother, who smiled at him and ruffled his hair; he saw Erskine, pointing at his chest and drawing his last breath; he saw Heinz Kruger foaming at the mouth from cyanide; he saw countless soldiers, both Allied and Hydra, fall across countless battlefields; he saw wolves fall dead all around him; he saw giants bleed out in a burned out house; he saw the guard he had killed so violently; he saw the storm giants in the halls leading to the throne room; he saw the frost giants who didn’t manage to escape; and he saw himself, an axe embedded in his demolished head.

 

The woman’s fingers slipped from his face and he collapsed down to his knees, sobbing. He could feel every single death as if it were happening right now, all at once, over and over. He had felt them all dying, every single one, as if he were living it. He was dying a hundred thousand times and he was shaking on the ground in front of...in front of...

 

“Hela, Queen of Hel,” the woman said, as if she could read his thoughts. “And you’ve seen so much _death_ , your soul reeks with it.”

 

Steve couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t stop sobbing, couldn’t hold back everything he had kept locked away for so many years. There was anger, _fury_ , but underneath it all was grief and sorrow so deep he felt he would drown in it. He was being held beneath the surface of it and he couldn’t swim. He choked, his whole body shuddering with his sobs and he reached out to Hela. Her feet were inches from him and he wrapped his fingers around her calf desperately.

 

“Take it away,” he gasped, unable to stop shaking enough not to bite his tongue. He felt as if he could taste something acrid in his mouth. “Please, take it away.”

 

“These are your memories, your soul’s death burdens. It is for you to carry.”

 

Bullets were piercing every part of him, bombs were blowing him apart, fire burned his skin, he drowned, a shield hit his throat with enough strength to crush his larynx and burst his carotids, he was erased from the face of the earth by ray gun. The deaths went on and on and he _felt_ them all.

 

He screamed, long and loud, and clung to Hela’s leg tightly. “Please, please...”

 

“You are not so righteous,” Hela told him, gazing down at him as if he were the vilest of humans. _Perhaps I am_ , he thought. “You are a beast like Garm, a wolf that howls. There is nothing special about you.”

 

He nodded, he didn’t care, he just wanted it to stop. Hela crouched before him, lifting his chin to look into his bloodshot eyes. He pleaded with her through his eyes, hoping she would see something worth having mercy on.

 

“Why did your soul call to me? You are a Midgardian...” she stared at him in return and he reached up until he could touch her face.

 

“Please,” he begged of her, his voice hoarse and breaking. “Take it away. Please, Hela.”

 

Her name sounded foreign and unfamiliar on his tongue, but once he had said it, he couldn’t stop. It was a plea, a prayer, a desperate hope. She pressed a finger to his forehead and he collapsed against her with relief. He could remember the deaths, but he could no longer feel them. She didn’t hold him so much as remain impossibly rigid as he leaned against her. He wrapped his arms around her, disregarding the fact that he knew she was the reason he was wherever he was. He wouldn’t let her remove herself from him. She would be forced to see him as something more than nothing special.

 

“I don’t know,” he began, his words muffled slightly against her stomach. “You called to me first. Maybe I answered.”

 

“Why would you answer a Death Queen?”

 

Steve laughed and lifted his head to meet her eyes. “You’ve been calling me my whole life.”

 

Hela stared down at him and brushed his hair away from his face with both her hands. She reminded him of his mother for a moment and the dissonance made him feel sick. “No, child,” she whispered, and he shivered in her embrace. “You have been _screaming_ for me.”

 

He saw himself at the edge of the river on his knees for countless cycles, dragged away against his will because he wanted nothing more than to die. He saw himself as he was before the serum, every sickness that came close to ending him, every accident that could have killed him, the bullies who could have hit him wrong just _once_ and he would have been a goner. Even after the serum, he pushed the limits, ran headfirst into danger, abandoned caution because he knew he would survive. He would live because he was tenacious and he seized the opportunities granted to him. Underneath everything was a current of daring; as if he were betting Death itself that it couldn’t take him.

 

 _Well_ , he thought, _lost that one_.

 

Something nagged at him and he frowned. “I didn’t see Bucky.”

 

“I showed you the dead on your soul,” Hela stood and he found himself following without thought.

 

“But Bucky...he fell from a train into a ravine,” he could see it clearly, but he couldn’t feel it.

 

“Perhaps he survived.”

 

The thought of it, of Bucky alive in that ravine right now...he had to get back to Jötunheim, back to Earth. He had to find him.

 

“How do I get back?” he asked, following Hela up to her throne. He stopped just before it. “How do I get back to Jötunheim?”

 

Chuckling darkly, Hela reclined in her throne. “You are dead, mortal, there is no way back.”

 

“You’re the Queen,” he argued, stepping closer. Garm, the wolf behind him growled, but he didn’t care. “You can do anything.”

 

“You believe I can...restore your life to you?”

 

“Yes,” Steve said, though he had no proof.

 

“You think I _will_?”

 

Steve opened his mouth but nothing came out. He had nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer. He had no leverage here in the realm of the dead. He found himself sinking to his knees.

 

“Your Majesty,” he had heard the giants call Brimer the same. “I _have_ to find him. Bucky’s...even when I had nothing, I had Bucky. Please, Hela,” Steve is aware he’s begging - again - but it’s worth it if it works. “Let me have a second chance.”

 

“You have had many,” Hela told him, calm and almost bored.

 

“Not from you,” Steve countered, staring into her eyes with half a smile on his lips. “I’ve only just met you.”

 

“You may not leave without a price,” she leaned forward and Steve did as well, eager to hear anything that even _resembled_ a chance. “A life for a life.”

 

Steve smiled, wide and pleased. “Send me back and you’ll have it and more.”

 

Hela took his face in hand again and he leaned into her touch. “Garm could do with a brother,” she pressed her fingers into his face. “You will need a fang.”

 

With her free hand, she grasped his forearm and he felt something wrap around it. He couldn’t look down because of her grip on his face, so he simply stared up at her. She almost glowed green and he sighed as she cupped his face with both hands. He raised his own to hold her wrists.

 

“Break our bargain and I take back my gifts,” she warned him and he nodded. “You will return to me for the final time, never to see the living world again.”

 

“You have my word, Hela,” Steve vowed, pressing against her hands.

 

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead and he felt it like a grenade explosion.

 

* * *

 

Steve came to on the edge of a scream, rising from the ground, drenched in his own blood to the sight of Brimer advancing on Brynja. He immediately threw his shield, but Brimer turned and caught it. He cast it aside and Steve rushed him, skipping out of range of an axe swipe to kick off the wall and land on Brimer’s belt. Using his upper body strength, he pulled himself up until he was on the storm king’s neck as he had been on the guard’s. He reared back, armed only with a tooth-like weapon on his forearm, and rammed it into Brimer’s neck. Blood sprayed outward, but it wasn’t near enough to have killed anything, yet Brimer stiffened before falling down dead.

 

He rolled off of the dead king onto his feet, having to reach forward to balance himself with his empty shield hand.

 

From his crouch, he could see a stunned Brynja staring at him wide-eyed. A shout from behind him caught his attention and he turned from her without a second thought. The frost giants were giving ground and were down to five. The heat at their backs was lessening their power and they had run out of daggers. Steve grinned, hungry, and blazed through the bottleneck like rocket. He stabbed his new weapon into the necks and chests of any storm giant he came across until they were gone. When the hall was littered with the dead, Steve paused to catch his breath.

 

“Stígandr,” Eiríkr asked, soft and almost fearful. “What happened in that throne room?”

 

“I killed the Storm king,” he replied and grinned at them all. “Now let’s go home.”


	11. Utgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! The week got busy and then writing sort of spun out of control a little. Edited some of the previous chapters, which boils down to me adding a bit and changing timeline stuff a little for Jotunheim. The main message is still the same I think, but you might want to reread if you've been here from the jump.
> 
> I'm juggling writing this and my first novel, so sometimes it might take a bit, but I'm still writing/editing. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Approximately 8 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim..._ **

 

 

Steve swayed where he stood and Eiríkr put a hand out to steady him. Still eager for battle, his teeth bared to the giants around him in a smile that became a snarl, Steve advanced on Eiríkr before realizing who it was that he was raising his fanged gauntlet to. Freezing in place, Steve’s breath caught and he hurriedly dropped his arms. His left felt weightless and he gazed down to see that his shield wasn’t there.

 

Blinking, he turned back to the throne room and made his way back inside. Brynja was pulling herself to her feet, using the storm king’s throne as leverage and she gazed up at him warily.

 

“Stígandr?” she asked and the fear in her voice was sickening. Steve drew in a breath and raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

 

“It’s me...it’s fine...we...” he looked to the body of Brimer, toppled like some tall tower onto the floor. His mask was sitting, cracked, in the remains of the mirror - or _portal_ \- where he had been enraptured by Hela’s gaze. “We survived.”

 

“Did we?” Brynja whispered, keeping her distance from him. He swallowed and his jaw worked. Her fear felt like petrol on his heart and he averted his eyes from Brimer and the proof of magic he knew even Ađalbjörg would not be able to match. He had fallen and something... _not right_...had picked him back up.

 

“Of course we did, right?” he asked her, soft and pleading. He held out his left hand, keeping the gauntlet to his side. “Sister?”

 

Brynja’s face drained of emotion and she stood upright, coming only a few feet taller than him as the fires blazed still in their braziers. She pointed a finger at him and he dropped his hand. “You are _no_ brother of mine. I saw his axe...” her voice slipped away from her and she gasped, blinking rapidly. “I saw it...”

 

“In my head,” he finished for her, nodding. She paused, and stared at him, so he continued. “Brimer killed me, right here, and I was _dead_.”

 

“Yes,” she whispered.

 

“And I...” Steve felt tears building in his eyes but he didn’t know why. He laughed and it rolled out of him quick and breathy. “But I’m still here.”

 

“How? What happened to you?” Brynja was watching him laugh and her fear seemed to dissolve into worry.

 

“I saw...Hela,” he said, his voice pitched low in fear that speaking her name would summon her. He _had_ kept his part of the bargain, right?” “She brought me back.”

 

“The Death Queen... _saved_ you?”

 

“I...” _begged, pleaded, bargained_. “Accepted a trade. Brimer’s life for mine.”

 

The other giants were calling out to them, warning them of more hostiles, and Steve held out his hand again to Brynja. She eyed it, then turned from him and retrieved something from across the room. As she returned to him, she held out his shield.

 

“You may need this,” he took it from her slowly and she hurried to the exit without looking back at him.

 

Steve bit down on the urge to follow after her and demand that she listen to him explain. He hadn’t meant to be killed or to come back to life as he had. Before the curse on him had been removed he would have been glad to have gone from this world. He glanced to Brimer’s mask and something told him to retrieve it. He sprinted around the king and skipped through the shards of green-tinted glass until he could hoist the bone-white mask onto his shoulders. Pieces of the mirror rained down on him where they had settled in the mask and he shook them out as best he could, though he felt a couple slide down his tunic.

 

Eiríkr frowned at him as he came out of the throne room with the mask on his back. “What are you doing, you mad Midgardian?”

 

“Proof...” he grit out, offering the mask to the giant. “For Laufey.”

 

Ólafur clapped his hands and snatched it from Eiríkr’s grasp. “Good thinking.”

 

Steve looked for Brynja but she was already out of sight. “Let’s go,” he ordered, and headed for the balcony.

 

* * *

 

 

The trek down the mountainside was silent and quick to Steve, who's adrenaline had worn out as soon as the threat was gone. Words failed him and as the giants celebrated their victory, he brooded.

 

Bucky was _alive_ , if Hela was to be trusted, and back on Midgar... _Earth_. They had left him in the snow, down at the bottom of that ravine. No, _he_ had left him. Had Hydra succeeded in creating the super soldier that they wanted out of Bucky? Was he surviving like Steve in some icy landscape, hunting wildlife for food? He tried to imagine what Bucky would be doing right now, however long it had been since the fall, and nothing came to mind. _I left him out there alone_. He sighed into the frigid air and the rousing talk from the giants of coming to Utgard as heroes.

 

 _Maybe this world is punishment_.

 

“We should head to Utgard, now, before the storm giants rally behind their dead king and come for us,” Eiríkr said, raising a hand that had somehow gotten ahold of Brimer’s mask.

 

“First, the river,” Ólafur decided as the treeline of the woods came into view. “I’m still too _warm_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ađalbjörg met them at the river’s edge, her eyes taking in the lot of them as they joined the ones who had already found their way there. Brynja took the mask of Brimer from Eiríkr and made a beeline for her mother while the other giants headed for the river. Steve stood in the middle distance, hesitant to get near the river and reluctant to go to Ađalbjörg.

 

He hovered there while Brynja whispered softly to her mother and handed her the mask. Ađalbjörg brought it up and stared at it with the backdrop of the overcast sky. Steve averted his eyes from her face and looked back to the mountain.

 

Birgir was still back there, lost before he’d even freed the others from captivity and yet...Steve had survived death.

 

He tried to swallow something thick and painful in his throat but it lingered and wasn’t sure what to do. It was hitting him now as it hadn’t in the mountain, that he had been dead. Magic, which he had been forced to believe in for all the proof was around him, had brought him back from death. Birgir’s head was hung on a wall, surrounded by blazing orange flame and he couldn’t bring him back.

 

The deaths that Hela had made him feel came back to him and he felt them like phantom memories, the agony exploding through him. He didn’t feel Birgir’s demise and that fact pained him as Brynja and Ađalbjörg began to weep.

 

He turned from them and back toward the place where the huts were, his hands clenched into fists and his shoulders tight.

 

Steve couldn’t bring himself to mourn. Despite the pain of all those deaths, a brilliant and soothing truth pervaded his mind and filled him with a happiness he couldn’t quite contain.

 

 _Bucky was alive_ , he repeated to himself, screaming it into his own mind until he wanted to cry from holding in his relief. He would have danced if people weren’t mourning mere yards from where he was standing. He knew it would be in ill taste. He _had_ to get back to Earth.                         

There wasn’t another option.

 

* * *

 

 

Queen Nedra had always claimed to be the smarter of the two when speaking of her husband and herself. It had been her idea to seek outside help in taking on the indomitable Laufey and his beastly frost giants. Of course, Brimer had snatched her plan from her and labelled it his own, then destroyed it utterly and left them both dissatisfied.

 

Standing in the wrecked throne room, amidst toppled braziers, the shattered remnants of the viewing portal between their world and their new ally, and the rotting heads of frost giants, Nedra gazed down at her king. Her _late_ king.

 

He had lost sight of the goal, of Laufey, by getting wrapped up in Hela’s plans. He was far too occupied with fooling the Asgardian gatekeeper, Heimdall, to focus on something bigger. Nedra’s calls to action had fallen on deaf ears and now, as always, she found that she would have to do it herself.

 

Because of a _Midgardian_.

 

“Majesty,” a servant girl announced herself demurely and Nedra turned to gaze at her, her cheek pressing into the fur hood she wore. It was from a pure white fox that she had demanded Brimer hunt for her.

 

“Round up your fellows and clean up this mess. We will hold a funeral for our king, then we will go to _war_.”

 

The servant bowed and rushed off. A guard took her place. Nedra pursed her lips at the smell of death and turned away.

 

“Where is his mask?” she inquired, not seeing it amongst the debris.

 

“I believe the frost giants took it with them, Majesty, as a trophy.”

 

Nedra clenched her fist and grit her teeth. She would have her revenge.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve eventually got near enough to the river to wash himself of all the blood and glow-weed that he’d layered on, though the glow-weed had stained his skin and was reluctant to come off. He covered what remained with his tunic and fur, blocking the light from view. His hair was far too long, but he didn’t have anything to cut it with, so he braided parts of it to prevent it from falling into his eyes.

 

Ađalbjörg sought him out the moment he was finished and he braced himself for anger. Instead, she lifted him into the air, much as Brynja normally did, and pressed him to her chest.

 

“You have my deepest gratitude, Stígandr,” she said, squeezing him in the equivalent of a hug. “You have done what I thought impossible and saved my people.”

 

“I didn’t...” he began, his voice empty, but he couldn’t finish the sentence. _I didn’t do enough_.

 

“But you did. I believed you would abandon my people to their fate once you acquired your freedom. I had assumed I would have to do it myself.” She sat him down on his feet and he looked up at her. “Then the first of my people found me at the river and I _knew_. Ymir had answered my prayers.”

 

Steve shook his head, but didn’t correct her. With all the strangeness that this venture had produced, from _feeling_ his way through a dark mountain to coming back from the dead, he wasn’t going to doubt some _deity_ or something called Ymir. He rubbed the back of his neck.

 

“Who’s Ymir?”

 

Blinking at him, Ađalbjörg seemed both appalled and amused. “Ymir is the father of us all, he is the oldest of us, the most powerful. He is ice and winter’s soul, the very heart of every storm. Ymir guided you to us and you freed us from Brimer. Now we return to Utgard and our king, because of you.”

 

“Utgard,” Steve said, gazing off into the distance. “How far away is it?”

 

“Not incredibly far, storms will come, however.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Ađalbjörg smiled kindly at him, but it was small and humoring.

 

* * *

 

 

“You know,” Eiríkr began, walking beside Steve as the giants headed to Utgard. “You quite adamantly told me challenging Brimer was a suicide mission.”

 

Steve glanced up at the giant before averting his eyes. He had a bad habit of issuing _do as I say not as I do_ orders. They always came back to bite him.

 

“I did.”

 

“So, it only applies to grieving fathers?”

 

Drawing in a breath, Steve looked up once more. “No, that’s not...”

 

“What you meant?” Eiríkr interjected and Steve lifted a hand to explain, only to let it fall back to his side.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, clicking his tongue. “I’m used to giving commands and I...I’m not used to following them.”

 

“A strange leader you would make. Who would follow you?”

 

Steve didn’t have an answer for that and he kept his mouth shut.

 

“I had two daughters and a son. They were young, barely knew more of this world than you. Brimer entrusted my family with his wolves, caring for them when they were not ranging the mountainside. My children were born to the howling of wolves and the wind. Ymir baptized them with blizzards the likes of which you could scarce imagine. Each one a blessing beyond measure,” Eiríkr sighed, looking away. “Brimer demanded more of us, and more still, until we could not meet his demands. Then he snatched us up and threw us in his dungeons. He took the children first.”

 

“What did he do with them?”

 

Eiríkr shrugged. “I do not know. But they were never seen again.”

 

“There’s hope, then,” Steve assured him, but Eiríkr shook his head.

 

“Hope is too gentle a thing to survive on Jötunheim, Stígandr. It perished long ago.”

 

* * *

  

Brynja approached him as they crested a ridge that looked down on a snow-covered valley where stone was visible in patches on the ground. In her hands, skinned and lightly cooked, was a fox.

 

“You must eat,” she said, handing it to him. It was still slightly warm.

 

“Thank you,” he paused, before taking a bite. His hunger which had been pushed to the back burner while he dealt with the danger in the mountain resurfaced with a vengeance. He devoured the fox, gamey taste and all. As Brynja began to move away, he followed her.

 

“You’re avoiding me,” he pointed out and Ólafur glanced over at them. He walked with Brynja until they were behind everyone else. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

 

“I will not ask more of what happened,” she glanced back at the others and he stared at her. “You have proven yourself to all of us. You killed the storm king...but he killed _you_ first.”

 

“Brynja,” he began, but she raised a hand.

 

“Do not tell me anything. It is better that I do not know more than you've already told me,” she pressed a hand to his shoulder and squeezed. “You are my brother, that is all I need know of you.”

 

He sighed and touched her hand. She retracted at the sight of the gauntlet. “I won’t hurt you, Brynja.”

 

“It is not you I worry about.”

 

“This,” he touched the gauntlet again and Brynja frowned at him. He pressed his hand to the tip of the fang, but nothing happened. It felt inert to him. “It’s just a weapon. Hela...”

 

“ _Don’t!_ ” Brynja cried out, covering her ears. “I do not want to know.”

 

“I’m not cursed,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m just... _back_.”

 

“Life is not something you can... _change_ like that.”

 

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” he quoted, looking off in the distance where spires that reached into the clouds like skyscrapers began to appear out of the plain landscape. They must be getting closer to Utgard.

 

“What does that mean?” Brynja asked him, walking beside him at a slower pace.

 

“Uh...it’s Earth religion.”

 

“Oh,” she frowned a bit. “Do they still go on and on about that warlord Odin?”

 

Steve laughed. “No, that’s myth...well, this whole world is myth.”

 

“Will they believe you, then, if you make it back?”

 

Steve doubted anyone would say otherwise, honestly. Schmidt had made a weapon that could vaporize human beings. Travelling across space had to be on the list of new possibilities for humankind.

 

“I hope so.”

 

“As do I,” her gaze lingered on his gauntlet and he looked straight ahead as a road of stone became more and more visible beneath layers of snow.

 

He tried to think of something to say to her, but words would not come. He stared at the gauntlet on his arm with a sliver of hatred. He didn’t want to be feared, especially not by those he had saved. _Her brother_ , he thought, and his heart skipped a beat. He reminded himself that he couldn’t get too attached to them. He would leave the first chance he got. Bucky was alive on earth and he had to get back to him.

 

Steve looked from the gauntlet to his shield, taking in the new scuffs that the paint had acquired and Steve realized it was the only thing he had left of Earth. Well, that and...

 

He dug into his boot and retrieved the circular compass he had saved from his things in the hut. He flipped it open with some effort and a little water spilled out. Inside, damaged but relatively whole, was a picture of Peggy. He smiled down at her until his eyes blurred and drew in a breath, pressing his lips firmly closed. The ink was running, the paper was frayed and the compass twirled directionless. His hand shook and he put it away again, shoving his emotions back into the pit he had dug for them.

 

This close to potential freedom, he refused to allow emotions to overtake him. He’d cry when he was back on his home soil.

 

“We’re nearly to Utgard, Stígandr, and we will throw a great feast for you. Laufey will see Ymir’s favor in you as we have,” Ólafur called out from towards the front of the group.

 

Ymir’s favor. Steve still didn’t believe in some ancient frost giant whose will dictated lives, but what else was there? He didn’t really know why he was here, truthfully. If Bucky was alive back on Earth, why did he have to come so far from home to learn that? He could have figured that out and been able to do something about it. Knowing it here, so far from home, meant he could do nothing but hold onto that information and wait.

 

“You said you left Utgard for your own reasons,” he began, taking in the view as the mountain range gave way to jagged stone structures that were in various states of disrepair. As they walked, chunks of it dislodged and came raining down to the icy ground. It wasn’t a welcome sight, especially after the halls of Brimer. If the storm giants had declared war, he wasn’t sure they would have been able to take them on. Of course, he had only seen a small group of frost giants who had spent however long beneath the king’s thumb. He wondered now if Laufey was as formidable as Brimer had been.

 

“How’s our reception going to be?”

 

Ólafur shrugged. “We left of our own accord. We are not exiled or forbidden.”

 

“So, home sweet home?”

 

Ađalbjörg chuckled. “Not quite.”

 

As if summoned by her words, a contingent of frost giants came rushing forward and they stopped the lot of them beneath one of the sturdier arches that bridged the path above them. Steve didn’t like the odds of not being crushed, but he didn’t have much choice.

 

“State your business,” one of the border guards demanded and Ađalbjörg stepped forward.

 

“We are the ones who left many cycles ago. I am Ađalbjörg.”

 

Scoffing, the thinnest guard smirked at them. “Mountain not to your liking?”

 

“The mountain was fine,” Brynja interjected, her arms crossed. “Its king, however, was not.”

 

“Oh, and Brimer let you come back?” said the other guard, twitching his fingers as if preparing a spell.

 

“No,” Ađalbjörg informed them, pointing to Eiríkr, who made sure the half-mask was completely visible. “But he is not going to stop us.”

 

The guards took in the mask and Steve, then looked back to Ađalbjörg in a new light. “If that is what I believe it to be...”

 

“It is.”

 

Swallowing, the guards turned to each other before gesturing for them to follow. “We will escort you directly to Laufey.”

  

* * *

 

 

Laufey’s throne room was dark where Brimer’s had been overbright and was lit dimly by braziers of pale blue flame the likes of which Steve had seen Ađalbjörg cast. He wondered if it was a universal trick that all frost giants knew. Maybe it was only the frost giantesses. The three from the cell had made it out and were somewhere in the middle of their group as they entered the well-guarded throne room. Brynja had taken turns walking near Steve and her mother and talking with the giantesses. He remembered the conversations he and Brynja had about _certain_ kinds of men and wanted to sidle up close to them. If any frost giant tried anything, he would deal with them as he had Brimer.

 

Laufey was slightly reclined against a wall of ice as they settled before him in audience. His shrewd eyes took them all in, lingering on Steve and Ađalbjörg. He tilted his head sideways as he considered them.

 

“Ađalbjörg,” he said, his voice as cold as the weather. “You _swore_ quite vehemently that you would never set foot in my kingdom again.”

 

Swallowing, her head held high, Ađalbjörg nodded. “I did. I was younger then and prideful.”

 

Steve realized that Laufey barely blinked, his eyes taking in everything with a persistent focus that was eerie and off-putting. “Yes, pride and youth. What did they cost you?”

 

The frost king gazed over their little group and Steve wondered how big it had actually been when they left. Heads had lined one side of the throne room and there could have been countless more before that. Brimer did not seem to care how macabre it was to decorate his throne with the heads of his enemies. Ađalbjörg sighed, but no tears came to her eyes.

 

“Birgir, and over half of my brethren,” the confession poured out of her in half a whisper and Laufey was silent for all of a second. Then, his laughter filled the air. He did not smile, but his laugh was more like whip lashes against bare skin than humor. The giants bowed their heads.

 

“So you come crawling back, seeking my favor which you denied?” he stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Even Steve stepped back from him. There was an undeniable threat in the frost king that he hadn’t felt from Brimer, an agelessness that granted him power beyond what Steve understood. He knew magic was real, at least on Jötunheim, and he could _feel_ it in waves from the king. “What is there to stop me from executing you all?”

 

“We did not return empty-handed,” Ađalbjörg told him, her hands clenched at her sides. She gestured to Eiríkr and he held up the half-mask of Brimer. “The Storm king is dead.”

 

Laufey turned his gaze to Eiríkr and took the mask from him in a hand that could have swatted Steve into the stone beneath his feet with very little effort. Though the king held the mask, he was staring at Steve. Instead of looking away as he had done with Brimer, Steve held the king’s gaze.

 

“Majesty,” he nodded, and Laufey narrowed his eyes.

 

“What is this?” Something in his tone gave Steve the idea that it wasn’t a question of his being Midgardian, but of his presence at all.

 

“Stígandr,” Ađalbjörg announced, stepping closer to him as Brynja appeared on his other side. “A Midgardian who fell from the sky three cycles ago.”

 

“A Midgardian?” Laufey patronized, looking away. “Is it your pet?”

 

“He killed Brimer,” Ólafur spoke up, coming forward in the group. He met Laufey’s eyes in confidence. “He freed us from the storm king’s dungeons, found a way out, and he killed the king to save Brynja.”

 

Brynja, having kept her silence the entire time, seemed uncomfortable to be in the limelight now. Steve knew the feeling. He cleared his throat and she looked to him. He smiled at her and she sighed.

 

“Brimer was communicating with Hela. Stígandr took advantage of his distraction and defeated him.”

 

Laufey looked among them all and held up the Brimer’s mask. In one swift clench, he crushed the bone white mask to dust. As the debris fell from his fingertips, Laufey waved his other hand.

 

“Find a place for them,” the frost king turned his back to them and sat once more upon his throne. “And watch the kingslayer.”

 

* * *

 

 

They were led through the remains of what Steve knew by Brynja’s description to be a wondrous kingdom of ice and power. He had felt a sliver of it from Laufey himself, and if that was anything to go by, then the frost giants were formidable indeed. He walked and took in the sights and sounds. The frost giants moved about like any other grouping of people, duos that leaned towards each other and talking in hushed tones, families that watched the newcomers with curious eyes, soldiers that were tussling with each other and watching them out of the corner of their eyes. Everything was stone, ice and snow, lit by the same blue fires that had been in Laufey’s throne room.

 

A child or two would walk along beside them, taller than Steve even as they toddled along, and he waved to them good-naturedly. Maybe if the frost giants in Utgard could trust him, then he could ask Laufey for help getting home. First, obviously, they had to regain Laufey’s trust.

 

Laufey and Colonel Phillips had one thing in common to Steve: they required him to prove himself. It was something Steve was incredibly used to and he would rise to this challenge as he had all the others.

 

The frost giants leading them stopped in front of a broken archway and crooked their thumbs towards it as they paced away. Ađalbjörg sighed, but climbed over the piece of stone and disappeared in the dark inner area. The other giants followed her and only Brynja hung back. As Fannar was helped over by Eiríkr, Steve looked to her.

 

“Is it everything you hoped?”

 

She shifted slightly out of the way as a group of soldiers stomped by and bared their teeth at them. Feeling wolfish, Steve returned with a manic grin of his own. Brynja tugged him further out of the way.

 

“Do not antagonize them. You may have returned from the dead, but that does not mean you are immune.”

 

“I’m not afraid of them,” he smiled genuinely at the children that stared at him and they blinked owlishly at him. “I’m not going to be strong-armed into doing what they want.”

 

“It may be the only thing you can do. This is Laufey’s land and we are his subjects. Until we have proven ourselves, we are vulnerable.”

 

“He won’t attack, will he?”

 

“Perhaps not. We did bring him Brimer’s mask, but that will not stop the others from wanting to test our mettle,” she offered him a hand up and he thanked her, leaping over the toppled debris and landing solidly on the other side. Brynja followed him a moment later. “It is best if you pretend to be obedient.”

 

“What’s your plan?” he asked, staring up at her as they walked down a thin hallway to where they could heal the others milling about.

 

“I do not have one.”

 

He held his tongue for all of a second. “You never answered my question.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“Is it everything you hoped?”

 

Brynja paused, just outside the circle of blue light that had burst into being ahead of them. She sighed. “Father always spoke of glory, of a purpose here in Utgard. This is where I was born, where my people stood against Asgard. It should be _more_ than this.”

 

“You want it back,” he stated, seeing Bucky’s face in his mind’s eye, grinning up at him with tired shadows under his eyes. “I understand.”

 

“I suppose you do,” Brynja crouched down to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Laufey’s trust is hard-won, Stígandr. It will not happen overnight, if at all. For now, let us focus on what is to come.”

 

“Don’t dwell,” he said, repeating what Birgir had told him. “Play along.”

 

“You are where you wanted to be, as am I.”

 

Steve looked away and Brynja walked the rest of the way into the shelter they would be staying in. He lingered in the hall, desperate to turn around and charge right back into Laufey’s throne room and demand he help him get home. He gazed down at his arm, taking in the gauntlet and shook his head. _Kingslayer_...he mouthed to himself and followed Brynja.

 

* * *

 

 

A couple of their group had ventured out to get the rest food and as they sat in clusters in what appeared to be an old vault of some sort, devouring mammoth as Steve had heard the storm giants going on about, he let himself live in the moment.

 

It was almost a relief to not have his mind occupied by what he would need to do next and he relaxed against Brynja’s leg, laughing as Ólafur regaled them with a tale of his exploits the last time he had been in Utgard. He didn’t know what an ice wave was or how one could both fall onto and surf one, but he found himself overly willing to try.

 

“And there I was, hovering on the edge of the kingdom proper, half-blind drunk from moon-berry wine and I hear the guards stomping after me with their heavy feet and it shakes the ground...” Ólafur’s chuckling now, and Steve’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “And I take a step backwards, only to plummet straight down.”

 

“Oh, Ymir,” Ađalbjörg breathed, covering her eyes with her hand.

 

“I am screaming down the into the fathoms and expecting death, and I raise my hands to shield my face when I manage to conjure a wall of ice!”

 

“Impossible, you are terrible at it,” Eiríkr was leaning back against the opposite wall and a bit of mammoth tried to escape his mouth as he shouted his disbelief.

 

“I reckon everyone is terrible at everything until death has come for them!”

 

Laughter filled the air and Steve felt tears spilling out of his eyes. For the first time in a long time, they weren’t from sadness.

 

A thunderous rumble filled the air and they all rose suddenly. Steve and Brynja were closest to the exit and they hurried toward it, coming back to the toppled stone to see groups of giants running in the same direction.

 

“An attack?” Steve asked from his perch on Brynja’s shoulder.

 

“I doubt it,” Ađalbjörg said, pushing through the bunch. “It’s something else.”

 

“Well, _I_ want to see it!” Eiríkr and Ólafur seemed in an accord with that. Steve and Brynja led the group out of their shelter and into the street.

 

A giant nearly as pale as the snow came whooping and and dancing through the street and Fannar gasped, shooting forward.

 

“Uncle Sverrir!”

 

The giant’s dance came to a stuttering halt and he looked to the group. “Is that my little Fannar?” Fannar rushed forward and Sverrir hoisted him up and spun him around. “You survived that bastard’s mountain!”

 

“Stígandr saved us,” Fannar told him with a grin and Sverrir looked to Steve in curiosity.

 

“That _flea_?”

 

“It’s true, Uncle.”

 

Sverrir snorted. “If you say so. Where's your parents?"

 

Fannar shook his head. Sverrir drew in a deep breath and released it, the hand not holding Fannar tightening into a fist.

 

Ađalbjörg came up to Sverrir and leveled him with a serious look. “What’s happening?”

 

Shrugging and spinning Fannar around again, Sverrir looked to the mountain of Brimer. It looked small from this distance. “They’re burning their king on the mountain. It’s a great show.”

 

Sverrir started back again, still dancing with Fannar in his arms. They followed.

 

* * *

 

 

Burning bright and orange on the face of the storm giants’ mountain, a pyre was blazing. From this far away it was hard to tell if there was a body in the pyre, but it appeared to be. There were dark spots all over the mountain and Steve thought they must be storm giants.

 

Brynja and the other told Sverrir all about the mountain and the throne room lit by braziers of orange flame. He looked to Steve and considered him in a different light.

 

“I suppose he must have had a hand in it,” Sverrir said, poking out at Steve and meeting the hard surface of his shield. “He looks like them, and he can’t shrink or he’d disappear.”

 

The giants laughed and Fannar smiled down at Steve.

 

“What happens when the fire burns out?” Fannar asked, turning back to his uncle.

 

“Well...the same thing that always happens when the high and mighty get offended,” he seemed to come alive, his eyes bright and wild, and he shivered where he stood in excitement. “ _War_.”

 


	12. Farewell to Midgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**Approximately 8 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim...**

 

Steve assumed the frost giants would start gathering, making adjustments to their crumbling kingdom, and training for battle. Instead, they went back to what they had been doing. The group Steve had come with headed back towards their appointed spot and Sverrir followed them with Fannar in tow. They resumed their talks and ate more mammoth as if they hadn’t witnessed the funeral of an enemy.

 

He watched them with a frown and tried to understand.

 

If this had been Earth, and a great enemy had lost their leader but retained their power, he and the rest wouldn’t just sit back with a steak dinner and wine. There were plans to make, approaches to consider, soldiers to train, maps to pour over, there was no shortage of stuff to _do_. Here, the giants reclined against bit of crumbled wall and spoke of times long past. There was no rush, no fear, no uncertainty.

 

War was coming, just as the snowstorms and the ever present cold. War was nothing special.

 

Steve had known nothing but a world where war was considered a last resort, something to avoid if possible. The generation before his had learned that lesson, and even before his, as far back as the country had existed. War wasn’t something to aim for, it was something to avoid. He brought this up with Ólafur who looked at him as if he had spoken a foreign language.

 

“ _Avoid_ war?” Ólafur asked, laughing somewhat. “Where is the glory in that?”

 

“Glory?” Steve knew the mindset of the fresh-faced and the eager, knew the rose-colored glasses they wore. Eventually they learned to remove them to survive or die in optimistic fashion. Only those who had never been tested spoke of glory.

 

“Do you believe kingdoms are built on fear?” Ólafur shook his head. “Kingdoms are built on strength, on resilience, on the _battlefield_. Nothing earned for free is worth anything at all.”

 

 _Freedom isn’t free_. Steve sighed, but looked back at the older giant. “If battle is so important, why aren’t we preparing for it?”

 

“We were born in war, Stígandr,” Ólafur said, the others began to take note of their conversation. “It is in our blood. Death is no stranger to our world. Those who seek glory will find it, either in survival or in death. It is entirely your own will that dictates your fate.”

 

“What about peace? You don’t fight for that?”

 

Sverrir snorted. “Have you not been here long?”

 

“Three cycles,” he replied, wondering where this was headed.

 

“You’ve seen a blizzard? An avalanche?”

 

“Yes, I have.”

 

“Then you know you cannot sue for peace from the storms,” Sverrir shook his head. “This is Jötunheim, Stígandr, not as you will it, but as it is. War, blizzards, avalanches, magic. There _is_ glory in war.”

 

“I’ve yet to see it,” Steve said, biting into what was left of his portion of mammoth.

 

“If you live long enough, you will.”

 

Steve looked up and met Brynja’s eyes. He thought of her words earlier. _A purpose here in Utgard_. He trained his eyes on his food and put lofty ideas like that out of his mind. His only purpose here was winning Laufey’s favor and earning a trip back home.

 

The more he thought it, the less weight it carried.

 

* * *

 

 **Approximately 7** **Jötunn** **cycles ago on** **Jötunheim** **...**

 

Steve had climbed the most stable spire he could find, for lack of something better to do, and as the air thinned and his grip grew more and more desperate, he clung to the solid stone and looked towards the mountain of the storm giants. It had been quiet since the fire went out on Brimer’s pyre and while the frost giants were unaffected by the inevitable war that was coming, Steve was itching to form a plan.

 

From high above the world he found himself stranded on, Steve surveyed the land. Far behind him, and assuming he could use Laufey’s throne as a center point on an unorthodox compass, was the south and the cliffs that Ólafur had fallen from in his story. Ahead of him, was Laufey’s throne and the gargantuan alcove that contained something frozen. He thought it looked like some kind of ogre from a child’s fairy tale, but its image was distorted by the layers of ice. Brynja called it a Beast. He thought perhaps that was all he needed to know. To his right was a citadel of some sort, that he supposed was part of what they had lost after their defeat. He tried to imagine it intact, but the state of disrepair made it hard to envision anything but decay. To his left, still too small from this distance, was the storm giant mountain.

 

He watched them from afar, looking for patrols, for marching soldiers in formation, for the odd scout that would inevitably be sent in to test out Laufey’s defenses. A fierce blizzard had blown through and Brimer’s mountain was draped in white, though it looked grey in the consistent blue tone this world had. There were no footprints in the fresh snow, no more fires burning. It was as if they had all gone into hibernation.

 

Swaying slightly, breathing incredibly difficult from this height, Steve tried to not be disappointed.

 

He didn’t _want_ to go to war. He just wanted this over with so he could win Laufey’s trust. As it was, he wasn’t allowed anywhere near the throne room. _Kingslayer_ , they hissed at him, and he wondered not for the first time if it was a compliment or an insult. On one hand, they didn’t regard him with any kind of hatred, though they warily skirted around him and kept him barred from a great many areas.

 

He could walk freely like his fellows from the mountains down the ‘main street’ as he called it, and he could go as far as the cliffs, but he wasn’t allowed inside with anyone. They didn’t trust him.

 

Steve wasn’t sure how to earn their trust. He found himself reluctant to admit that he hadn’t really struggled with that. Of course, there were times that he had been delayed, but after reflection, he decided it was for the best. If he had been deployed on the front lines but not in the 107th, he might never have found Bucky in that base, or the Howling Commandos. Maybe he and Peggy wouldn’t have grown close either. He might have just been another letter for Colonel Phillips to dictate to the mainland. Maybe he was anyway.

 

There wasn’t anyone waiting for him at home, aside from Bucky and Peggy, and no one aside from the Commandos and Phillips that would care if he wasn’t part of the war effort. Despite all he’d done in his, as he had learned from the giants, _pathetically short_ life, he still had gathered only a few to mourn. It would have been a paltry funeral.

 

Steve pushed his mind back towards the hope that Bucky was alive on Earth. He had to withstand for him. He had to keep the faith.

 

The wind shifted and brought with it the whispers of a warning. Another storm was about to come through.

 

Steve began his descent, and shoved his doubts to the darkest corner of his mind.

 

* * *

  

“You spend hours up in the clouds, Stígandr,” Brynja said to him as they followed Ađalbjörg to the home of an old relative. According to Brynja, the giantess was called Hjördís and had housed them until they had left Utgard. “What do you hope to find?”

 

“Clarity,” Steve replied, pulling his extra furs closer. Ađalbjörg had acquired some when she had gone out for more food. He wouldn’t be allowed to light an orange fire here. It was too taboo. The cold was seeping into him like a sickness. Parts of him, even mentally, were atrophying. He blamed it on the weather.

 

“It reminds me of the river,” she said, her voice dripping with disappointment.

 

“It’s not the same.”

 

“No, at least you bargained with the river. You ask nothing of the sky.”

 

“What’s it going to give me?” he thought of more snowstorms and whiteouts, the whispering in the cusp of every storm.

 

“A portal, an... _airplane_ as you called it,” she cast her hand about in the air around her as if hoping to catch more options. “ _Something._ ”

 

“You’ve all made it clear I won’t be able to leave, and even if Laufey knows a way, I have to earn his trust.”

 

“Then the next time you’re up there, ask for guidance. Ymir hears all.”

 

Steve nodded, though he had no faith in the frost giant deity. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

* * *

 

They arrived at Hjördís’ home a while later and Ađalbjörg pressed her hand to the archway of the great stone structure, muttered something Steve didn’t understand. Brynja did the same, following her mother inside. Steve pressed his palm to the stone but he didn’t know what to say. Keeping his silence, he entered as well.

 

Inside, lit by blue flame, was what he could only describe as a witch’s hut.

 

Where Ađalbjörg had gathered many relics and artifacts that he had been told were imbued with magical properties, Hjördís had created from stone a wondrous and almost holy house. In the very walls he felt what he had when he and his Ma had gone to Mass. There was power in the stone here as there had been in the wood on Earth, and it grasped onto something inside of Steve that he couldn’t name.

 

The space was open, like their house had been back at the base of Brimer’s mountain, and from the ceiling hung moon-berries in gleaming silver bunches, their prickly dark leaves not reflecting the light. There were tables covered in animal parts, bones and organs in various states of use, blood painting the stone floor. Fur was draped over the backs of chairs, blue and black, white and grey, red and gold. The whole place smelled of the highly poisonous moss that grew up the sides of the trees beside the river. Steve had thought more than once about using it...on _someone_. The cold here was heavy, like the weight of a humid summer air, only in winter. He breathed in through it and stayed behind the giantesses.

 

Hjördís was shorter than Ađalbjörg and was bent with age, her eyes a rheumy white. It sort of reminded him of Brimer and Steve clenched his fists.

 

“My...daughter,” Hjördís sighed, stepping closer to Ađalbjörg and reaching out her hands. Her nails were glowing and he realized she had painted them with glow-weed. Did they have _fashion_ on Jotunheim? “You have come home.”

 

“Yes, mother, and I have brought Brynja,” stepping out of her mother’s touch, Ađalbjörg let Brynja take her place. “She is ready to be taught.”

 

“I will be the judge of that,” Hjördís snapped not unkindly, squeezing Brynja’s face between her palms. “What a beauty!”

 

Brynja’s cheeks darkened and she hid a smile by pressing her lips together. Steve looked at her and found that he agreed. His _sister_ was beautiful. “Grandmother, I have a brother.”

 

Hjördís gasped, looking behind them. Steve waited to be scrutinized, but the old giantess merely frowned. “There are no other Jötunn here.”

 

“He’s not a giant,” Brynja beckoned Steve forward and he stood straight as he came closer. “He’s Midgardian, grandmother.”

 

Hjördís blinked and reached out for him. Her hand fell short, so he stepped nearer. Her fingers met the top of his head, then she ran them down his shoulders until she could lift him up in the air. He bore it with resignation, far too used to being manhandled like this. His group, the ones from the mountain, had learned not to hold too tightly. Hjördís didn’t need to be told.

 

“How strange. What brought you here?”

 

“The Tesseract,” he began, used to telling this story. None of the giants here in Utgard had cared for his tale, nor had they been able to provide him with a solid answer of if he would be able to get off Jötunheim. It wasn’t heartening to hear, but he supposed he should be grateful they were speaking to him at all. He was an oddity they had not come to care for yet.

 

Hjördís looked to her daughter and granddaughter before gazing back Steve. “Ymir,” she whispered into the air and Steve felt a wave of pure ice go over him. He shivered in her hand, his spine tingling as if someone had sent a jolt of electricity through his nervous system. The feeling disappeared as quickly as it came and he found himself falling to his feet. Hjördís was shaking her head.

 

“You have brought death to my home!” she cried, knocking over a pot of bright pink oil in her haste to put space between them. It leaked onto the floor and choked the air with the scent of mothballs. “Hela has marked him!”

 

Brynja’s eyes widened and she stepped closer to Steve, pushing him behind her. Ađalbjörg frowned at them both, going to her mother. “Mother, calm yourself.”

 

“Get him out of my home!”

 

“Mother, what did you see?” Ađalbjörg looked back to Steve and he swallowed, his hand on Brynja’s where she shielded him.

 

“That thing is no Midgardian. That thing...is Hela’s wolfling,” Hjördís was reclaiming her calm and she glared angrily at him. “You may have fooled my kin, but you will not fool me.”

 

“I don’t want to fool anyone,” Steve told her, pressing against Brynja’s hand until she allowed him to move. He moved closer to Hjördís and Ađalbjörg, his hands up. “I didn’t tell Ađalbjörg because I didn’t want to scare her. Brynja saw it happen.”

 

“Saw what?” Ađalbjörg questioned, frowning at him now with unease. Steve hated the distrust and the fear in people’s eyes when they looked at him. He didn’t want to _hurt_ anyone.

 

“Brimer got the drop on me. He had a mirror or something to communicate with Hela. She caught my attention and I lost track of the fight. Brimer’s axe...” The thought of it still gave him a sense of terror that he couldn’t contain. He wanted to flinch from the memory, even though it was fuzzy. There was always something heavy in the corner of his eye.

 

“It hit his head,” Brynja finished for him, looking to her grandmother. “He was dead.”

 

Ađalbjörg gasped, looking between them. “Why did you not say?”

 

“Because Brynja feared me and I didn’t want anyone else to be afraid,” Steve dropped his hands to his sides. “I just want to get _home_. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

 

Hjördís took in a shuddering breath and set her jaw, coming forward with determination. She scooped him back up and he held onto her fingers where they curved around his chest. Holding him up to her eyes, she stared at him in silence. He didn’t feel the cold as he had before, but there was something in her gaze that told him she was looking at more than his face.

 

“You _have_ hurt a great many,” she said, her voice monotone. “You have abandoned _so_ many. You shall never see _your_ home again.”

 

Steve shoved at the old giantess’ hand until she let him go. “Yes, I will.”

 

“You cannot will it into being. There is no magic in you.”

 

“Ađalbjörg said I could.”

 

“Oh, you may try, but your home is gone. You will never see it again.”

 

Steve stared at the old giantess until his vision blurred, then he spun on his heel and marched back outside. Brynja called out to him, but he ignored her, breaking into a jog, into a sprint, until he was pushing his enhanced body as hard as he could. He left the Jötunn behind him as he headed back to his spire. He scaled it without a thought, reaching higher and higher until the air was almost gone.

 

With a final push, he reached the top. He couldn’t catch his breath, he couldn’t even get a full breath, but he didn’t care.

 

Bucky was alive and he wasn’t going to stay on Jötunheim, unable to reach him. There was no use for his compass up here, but he dug it out anyway, looking down at the faded picture of Peggy. If he didn’t know it was her, he wouldn’t have been able to tell. The ink was almost gone.

 

Peggy was almost gone. Bucky was out there. Steve’s head spun and he wasn’t sure if it was from lack of air or if the serum was acting up and he was having an asthma attack. He pressed his hand to his chest and a sob escaped him. Three cycles on Jötunheim and he has heard nothing but no. He began to wonder if Laufey could even get him off this wretched planet. Maybe the Jötunn were telling the truth. Maybe there was no way home.

 

Pain, unlike even the deaths Hela had made him feel, exploded in his heart and he found himself weeping uncontrollably. He didn’t want to believe he would never see home again. He didn’t want to entertain the idea that he was stuck here forever. Peggy would move on and get married, have some kids. Maybe Howard would, too. Bucky, if he wasn’t Hydra’s all over again, could settle down, too. Maybe the world would keep spinning without him. Steve imagined a world without him, where he never found his way back. All he could see were smiling faces.

 

He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his crossed arms, making himself as small as possible. It was all he’d ever been or would ever be.

 

Steve didn’t know how long he remained like that, curled into himself, but a whisper came on the wind. It wasn’t a storm, but there was a warning within it. He ignored it, too full of sorrow to care. Persistent and steady, the whisper became a roar. Steve glanced up and saw - formed from the snow flurries in front of him - the silhouette of a man. The man’s face was obscured by a helm like a ram’s horns.

 

 _Rise_ , the whisper ordered him, as weighty and powerful as Laufey’s had been.

 

“Ymir?” he asked, dazed, but the form seemed to puff up a little.

 

 _Bor_ , it said and he blinked.

 

“Can I get home?”

 

 _Rise_ , it demanded once more, _rise and fight_.

 

In the distance, far beyond the range of normal perch, he could see a wave of storm giants pouring out of Brimer’s mountain. They carried torches of orange flame in their hands. The form made of snow was gone.

 

* * *

 

Steve came rushing back into Utgard proper, his tears frozen on his cheeks, and he looked for the first familiar face. No one else was going to believe him. Through the throngs of Jötunn, he pushed and shoved, shouting for them to move, shouting the names of his group.

 

He found Fannar first.

 

The young giant met him in the street, a frown on his young face. “Stígandr, what’s the matter?”

 

“They’re coming. I saw them. The storm giants,” he gasped, still out of breath.

 

Fannar drew a sharp intake of breath and took off. Steve followed, pushing his body faster to keep up. Fannar was headed for the throne room. Steve hesitated at the doorway, watching the young giant enter. Clenching his fist, Steve took a deep breath before pressing his palm to the archway and asking for hope. He entered as well.

 

Laufey eyed them both as if they were bugs come to pester him in his repose. Steve spoke first, pleasantries forgotten.

 

“They’re coming. Nedra must have rallied them. They’ve got torches.”

 

“Is this fear?” Laufey asked, looking down at Steve.

 

“No, but where I come from, we don’t wait for the enemy to be at our door to act.”

 

Laufey laughed, low and short. “What has given you the idea that you know better than we?”

 

Steve opened his mouth, but anything he said would perpetuate the King’s belief. If he wanted Laufey’s trust, he would have to follow his rules. He snapped his mouth shut.

 

“No matter how many cycles you live amongst us, you will never _be_ us. You will _never_ understand our world,” Laufey rose to standing and raised his hand. Two of the guards darted out of the room. “You may have defeated Brimer...but you did not do it alone.”

 

Steve swallowed, staring up at Laufey. “That’s true.”

 

Narrowing his eyes, Laufey tilted his head. “You will not rise here. You will not topple me.”

 

“I don’t plan to,” Steve sighed, raising his gauntlet. “Hela gave me this and it killed Brimer. He threatened my family. Brynja and Ađalbjörg, all the giants from the mountain, _Birgir_ ,” the old giant’s name was a lump in his throat. He cleared it before continuing. “Now the people of Brimer threaten Utgard. Until I find a way back to Ear...Midgard... _this_ is home. I want to fight for it.”

 

Laufey kept his unblinking gaze on Steve and he maintained it, letting all of his earnestness show on his face.

 

“Then see to it your _family_ is ready for war,” The king commanded and Steve found himself standing at attention. “You will prove yourself on the battlefield.”

 

“Yes, your Majesty, I will.”

 

* * *

 

Amongst the stone spires and crumbling monuments to a time long gone, Steve and his group gathered with the rest of Laufey’s army. Brynja had lifted him onto her shoulder and he clung to one of the roses on her crown to maintain his footing. Sverrir had demanded Fannar stay behind and Ađalbjörg had made the younger giantesses stay behind as well. His group was no bigger than twenty and they were but a sliver of the army that Laufey had amassed in less than an hour. It was daunting to see the number of Jötunn that resided in Utgard, and Steve realized how much he had underestimated the strength of them.

 

The ruins belied their power.

 

At the head of the army of storm giants was their Queen Nedra. She wore a white fur hood and a tunic and leggings dyed a light blue, with a long purple scarf that wound around her neck, across her chest and was tied off at her waist. She also wore metal armor: silver tassets that fell from her hips to protect her outer thigh, a silver pauldron on her left shoulder that led to a vambrace and to her gloved fingers. Her held her right hand above her head and in her palm was what looked to be a white flame. Inside of it was something living.

 

Steve rolled his shoulders beneath his many furs and adjusted his shield on his arm. He had no other weapon than Hela’s gift and he wondered if it would be as effective on these storm giants as it had been in the mountain. He hadn’t used it since the fight in the hall outside the throne room.

 

Laufey didn’t speak to Nedra, nor did he make a move toward her army. Instead, he stood at the front of his army and watched her approach.

 

Nedra rode a mammoth about as big as the Beast encased in ice. It’s tusks were long and curved, sharpened to points.

 

“Laufey, your kind have taken something from me,” she glanced over them all, her chin jutted out so far she had to look down her nose at them. “You will return it!”

 

“And what have _we_ taken?” Laufey asked of the queen, his voice pitched low and dangerous. Nedra swallowed.

 

“Where is my husband’s mask?”

 

“All about you. It is dust, as he is.”

 

Exhaling indignantly, Nedra set the white flame atop her mount’s head so she could cross her arms. “I will have payment for this affront. Hand over the ones who killed my husband and I will go back to my mountain.”

 

“No, she won’t,” Steve whispered to Brynja, who shook her head lightly and repeated it back in agreement.

 

“You will make no demands of me, Nedra,” Laufey warned, something like a smirk worming its way onto the Jötunn king’s lips.

 

“I will do what I like, I am QUEEN!”

 

“A child queen with your husband’s _childish_ temper. March back to your mountain, _Queen_ , while you have the chance.”

 

“You want me to run?” Steve could see the moment Nedra chose war over humility. “I will tear this kingdom down!”

 

Nedra kicked her mammoth into movement, charging ahead into the battle. Before she could cover the distance between herself and Laufey, many storm giants filled in the space, protecting their queen with numbers alone. The Jötunn rushed forward to meet her army and the battle began. Further back, where the army was still lingering in the narrow pathway that led to Utgard, Steve hovered on Brynja’s shoulders.

 

That call deep inside of him, the kind that rose when he battled the wolves on his first day on Jötunheim and when he killed the giants in the mountain, burst into life. He wanted to fight, he wanted to destroy.

 

He saw his chance as the army moved forward and Laufey turned his back for one moment on Nedra, who was well-protected behind a veritable wall of storm giants. Steve saw her lift her gloved hand and he leapt off Brynja’s shoulders, hopping from giant to giant as fast as he could until he made it to where Laufey was. With one last push, he jumped on Laufey’s shoulders as he had Brimer and the guard. The king stiffened beneath him, caught off guard, but Steve only held on with his gauntlet hand and blocked Nedra’s white flame attack with his shield.

 

Nedra’s frustrated scream was his reward.

 

Laufey got back to fighting and Steve blocked Nedra’s blows, the remaining layers of paint vanishing with each attack. When Nedra realized attacking Laufey was a lost cause, Steve hopped off the king’s shoulders and into the fray, using the momentum and angle of swinging weapons to climb up to neck height of many of the giants.

 

He dispatched many of them with his gauntlet, relishing in the rumble of their bodies hitting the ground, the blooms of red blood that painted the snow. They were the obstacles between him and Earth. Each giant was a doubt he could silence with a well-aimed jab of his fanged gauntlet, each rumble a bit of his faith restored.

 

The battlefield was singing in his ears; the clangs of weapons, the shouts and screams, the heavy footsteps and pounding fists. He added his own music to the symphony, howling like the wolf Ađalbjörg made of him, like Hela had armed him to be.

 

Nedra aimed more flame at him, but he dodged it or blocked it. A few times, painfully, she managed to hit him outside the range of his shield and it burned through his tunic down into his skin. He bit back his cries of pain, funneling the pain into his muscles to keep him going. He lost track of everyone and everything, caught up in the freedom of battle.

 

Some part of him knew he was losing himself, but he didn’t stop to think about it. When this battle was over, he would check himself and set boundaries, but not today.

 

* * *

 

 

The storm giants retreated until it would have been foolish to follow them and Steve stared at their fleeing backs with a wide-eyed and dazed expression. He wanted to give chase, to follow them into the mountain and set them all aflame.

 

Brynja found him before anyone and he turned to her slowly. His body was registering all he’d done and he felt a little sick when his new view was nothing but a field of corpses.

 

“Stígandr?” she asked him and he nodded tiredly.

 

“Yeah, it’s me.”

 

“Laufey wishes to speak with you.”

 

Steve stared up at Brynja and blinked. “This’ll sound strange...but can I sleep first? It’s been a long day.”

 

“Not if you wish to win his favor,” she pressed a hand to his back and he forced himself to stand straight. “You did well.”

 

The walk to Laufey’s throne room was long and arduous and Steve stumbled more than once on the path. His energy reserves were completely depleted and the places where Nedra had burned him ached to his bones. He wondered if they were magically still burning.

 

Laufey looked up from his contemplation when Steve entered with Brynja and narrowed his eyes.

 

“Mortal, you have surprised me,” Steve swayed in place, at a loss for words. “I underestimated your abilities.”

 

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he managed, coughing. Brynja worriedly crouched beside him.

 

“Stígandr? Are you alright?”

 

“Nedra’s flames...I think they’re still burning,” he listed to the side and fell to a knee. He scrabbled at his tunic and furs, casting them off as he tried to pinpoint the source of his pain and exhaustion. One particular hit was burning _through_ him, as if digging a tunnel through his side. He almost retched at the sight and Brynja gasped, reaching a hand out to hover over his wound. Laufey appeared from nothing and pressed a finger to Steve’s abdomen. It burned worse than the white flame and he screamed.

 

Everything went dark.

 

* * *

 

He was still in the throne room when he came to, though he was closer to Laufey than he had been before. His tunic was still off and he reached for his wound the second he remembered why he passed out in the first place. His skin felt normal, as if the burning white flame had never been there.

 

“What are you?” Laufey asked him, staring at him from his place at his throne. Steve sat up, groaning as the cold air started to make him shiver.

 

“Midgardian, a soldier...tired,” He pushed himself up to standing and saw his tunic and furs in a pile. He hurriedly put the tunic back on, layering his furs up until cold air couldn’t even get through the hole that had been burned in the fabric.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

As Steve settled into his furs and tried to get warm, he began to feel like he was being interrogated. “By accident. If you mean, _why am I in Utgard_ , then the answer is to get back home.”

 

Laufey watched him without moving for a few moments and Steve forced himself to maintain the eye contact. “There is no way off Jötunheim, mortal. One would think the others would have told you this.”

 

Steve broke their gaze and looked to the floor. “There’s got to be a way. Brynja told me stories about people hiring mercenaries. I could hitch a ride with one of them, work off the price of transport and get home.”

 

“We have not seen another kind in...half a millenia. There is no one to... _hitch_ a ride with. You are exiled here.”

 

It was the same thing everyone else had said, the same words, the same attitude. Steve shook his head.

 

“No,” he started to say more, but his breathing had increased. He wanted to run again. “No, I _can’t_ be stuck here. Bucky’s alive! He needs me. Earth _needs_ me. I can’t _stay_ here. You don’t understand...”

 

“Mortal, perhaps it is _you_ who does not understand. You called Utgard home, called my people your _family_. Now it will be more than words,” Laufey rose and towered over Steve, a terrifying truth in the giant’s certainty. “You are without choice. Utgard shall be your home, for as long as you live.”

 

“No.” Steve felt tears coming to his eyes again, but he didn’t want to let them fall.

 

“Go to your family. Nedra will return. You can prove yourself again, then.” It was a dismissal in all but words and Steve stomped out of the throne room out into the heavy snow that had began in Utgard.

 

He bowed his head and walked until he had left the stone pathways behind. The snow rose up to meet him, waves and waves of it like an ocean tide, buffeted by the fierce winds. It stripped away his furs, layer-by-layer, until he stood in only his tunic in the blizzard.

 

In the midst of the storm, he closed his eyes and welcomed Hela to him. He called to her as he had called to Brynja, following the pure and expanding feeling as it filled every part of him. His call became a shout became a scream, and he felt as if he were standing in the river again.

 

“You were to be my fierce wolf,” an alluring voice said to him and he turned to look back to the barely visible spires of Utgard. Between him and the city of Jötunn stood the Queen of Helheim. She was as he remembered her and she seemed greatly disappointed. “Garm quite enjoyed your prowess.”

 

“I gave you Brimer, I’ve killed storm giants, I’ve done everything. Why can’t I go home?”

 

“Mortal,” she whispered to him, coming closer. He bit back a sob as he stared at her. “I gave you life again. I did not give you a destiny. It is up to you what you do with your new life.”

 

“Can you get me to Midgard?”

 

“It is not in my power.”

 

“Is anyone worth _anything_ here?!” his shout echoed into the empty air and Hela merely watched him. He laughed desperately, tears freezing on his cheeks as he bent down to retrieve his compass. He opened it and held it up. Peggy was a blur of ink on faded yellow paper. “Peggy...she was...I was going to...I _would_ have...”

 

“That life left you when you came to me. You are not the man who fell to Jötunheim. You are something else. Something _new_.”

 

“I don’t want to be new. I want to go back.”

 

“Time cares not for our desires. It will leave you behind if you falter,” Hela reached out for him and he jerked away. “See? It is not Death you long for now. Is it, child?”

 

“I just want to go home,” he said, his hand shaking as he struggled to maintain his grip on his compass. A gust whipped around him and the picture flew away. He reached out for it, terrified of losing it, but it was gone before he could even register it was airborne.

 

“ _This_ is your home, child. Perhaps you should go back to your family,” Hela advised him, and when he turned to her once more, she was gone.

 

Steve stood in the snow, looking toward Utgard and then back at the endless, bleak landscape. Either he stayed here and waited for Hela to come back for the last time, or he went back to Brynja and Ađalbjörg and the rest and fought with them against the storm giants. He looked to his empty compass, with its wildly spinning arrow, and closed it firmly.

 

He shoved it back into his boot and started another long march.

 

Utgard’s spires greeted him as he came closer to its stone pathways. Up ahead, watching him approach, was Sverrir. The pale giant stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest and a frown on his face.

 

“You would make Fannar mourn another?”

 

“That wasn’t my intention,” Steve swore, realizing once more that he had thought of no one but himself. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Apologize to him, not me. I am not the one disappointed by you.”

 

“I can’t go home, _ever_ ,” he admitted to Sverrir, who grinned down at him.

 

“You _are_ home, fool. There is mammoth if you are hungry,” Sverrir began to walk back towards the city and Steve followed him in silence. “Brynja worried you would choose death again.”

 

“She won’t have me.”

 

“That is just as well. We need you more.”

 

A purpose here in Jötunheim. Maybe...maybe that was his mission now. He glanced back to the storm that had taken what was left of Peggy's picture. He imagined it took more than that. With a sigh, he turned his back to the blizzard and sprinted to keep up with Sverrir.

 


	13. Passage of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's out and my young cousins are over every weekday, so updating might stretch a little bit. Sorry for the delay. Here's a super-duper long chapter to compensate! There's a bit with Nedra that comes direct from a [ comic panel ](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9rMB9zTZfgU/VNphFJTQIYI/AAAAAAAAxXY/8c60yKw-Z_c/s1600/Journey_Into_Mystery-105-29%2B-%2BCopy.jpg) I found online. Nobody probably notices all the comic references, honestly. Also this chapter fought me on everything, and I mean EVERYTHING. It was an unruly child.
> 
> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**Approximately 7 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim**

 

With war declared, Utgard became the frenetic and lively place he had expected it to be. Even still, they moved too slow for his liking.

 

“What is your rush?” Eiríkr asked him, playing some game with Brynja that required painted stones. Steve had been watching them for days and still did not understand it.

 

“Nedra’s got grief on her side, but so do we. Her attacks will probably be wild and impulsive,” Steve explained, but Brynja shook her finger.

 

“Please tell me you do not think a woman cannot lead an army,” she did not look up at him, but he felt her glare nonetheless.

 

“That's not what I’m saying,” he stood akimbo, craning his head up a bit to maintain relative eye contact. “From what I saw out there earlier, she’s prideful and impulsive. Her grief might exacerbate it.”

 

“Nedra is young compared to what Brimer was. Her father once tried to marry her off to Laufey. He did not want her,” Ađalbjörg informed him and he turned to her. “She _settled_ with Brimer for lack of a better choice.”

 

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t care for him.”

 

“You are sweet, Stígandr, to think so.”

 

He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but he thought he understood. Arranged marriages weren’t exactly unknown to him. He did like to read. He sighed.

 

“I’m just trying to get a read on her. If we understand her, we’ll know how to take her down.”

 

Sverrir snorted. “We’ll just throw you at her. You can end her like you did Brimer, by whatever magic you managed that.”

 

“He killed him with _eagerness_ alone,” Ólafur asserted and Brynja shared a knowing glance with Steve. He shrugged his shoulders. The other giants had made a game of trying to figure out how he had killed the storm king. He let them create fantasies around him; it helped him ignore the fact that he had a weapon of death attached to his forearm.

 

Steve waited until the back and forth from the giants quieted before he tried again. “You were in the mountain for a while. What can you tell me?”

 

“We were in cells,” Eiríkr offered deadpan, and Steve rolled his eyes. “Well, you asked.”

 

“Surely somebody had to have an audience with the king and queen. What were they like, did they have any visible divides, did they have the same goal? Anything you give me could help.”

 

“Are you planning on taking Nedra out by yourself?” Ađalbjörg asked him, frowning. She also knew about Hela and the weapon on his arm. Her gaze was like Brynja’s. He looked away.

 

“I’m small, hard to spot, quiet. I can get into the mountain.”

 

“You would kill Nedra while she sleeps?” Sverrir asked him, looking him up and down.

 

“Maybe I won’t have to. Maybe I can just find out what their advantage is, knock it out.”

 

“We meet the storm giants on the battlefield, Stígandr, not in the dark,” Ólafur admonished.

 

“I didn’t get you out of that mountain on a battlefield. The dark was all we had. We can’t pretend to have qualms now about using it to our advantage.”

 

“You want to end this war quickly,” Ólafur shook his head. “War has never ended fast on Jötunheim.”

 

“You didn’t have me,” Steve said, staring up at the giants. They had nothing to say to that.

 

* * *

 

  

Nedra and her army came again and Laufey called Steve to him at the front. Standing at attention, Steve awaited the king’s command.

 

“Word has it you want to assassinate Queen Nedra,” Laufey gazed down from the corner of his eye, his head turned only a small bit towards Steve. “Do you have a vendetta against her?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“Yet you have stated your willingness to kill her as you killed Brimer. What is the truth, Stígandr?”

 

“Brimer took Jötunn captive and I killed him to set them free. I underestimated him,” he thought of the axe that had ended his life. “I got distracted and paid the price. I won’t make the same mistake with Nedra.”

 

“She possesses an air spirit. She will have it keeping an eye out for threats like...assassins.”

 

Steve grinned up at Laufey, rolling his shoulders. “She won’t see me.”

 

“You will do nothing without my command.”

 

“Your Majesty,” he bowed his head, thinking about Eiríkr’s words concerning taking orders and leadership.

 

Laufey lifted his hand, dismissing Steve, and the King walked forward to meet the storm queen. Steve hung back, waiting for the others to overtake him until he was with his group again.

 

“You are popular,” Sverrir commented, looking down at Steve in curiosity. “Do you have a special mission?”

 

“No,” Steve fought back something like bitterness in his throat. “It’s wait and see.”

 

“One day you will learn patience, Stígandr,” Ólafur said, patting him with a single finger. The weight of it still forced Steve to take a step forward. He nodded, resigning himself to the fact that he was going to have no other choice.

 

He was stuck here, so that meant he was going to have to live by its rules. That meant, despite how much he hated it, that he would have to kowtow to Laufey when it came to waging war. Steve put his plans on the backburner, knowing even his team would not go against Laufey. If he went AWOL here, he’d have to do it alone.

 

He found himself reluctant to press his luck.

 

* * *

 

He threw himself into battle as he had before, as he found he had no choice but to. It was either that or go back to Utgard and sit on his hands. Steve knew he couldn’t do that. If there was a war to fight, Steve would be on the field. Even some of the young Jötunn had taken to the field. He could do no less than them. It was almost like being on Earth before the serum, when nearly every guy going into the army was bigger than him.

 

If a miracle found him on Jötunheim and he found a way home, he would have so many stories to tell.

 

The Jötunn had realized that they could lift him and throw him into places they could not reach and Steve was used like a grenade. Sverrir had tried it first, lifting him like a javelin without warning and sending him hurtling into a well-shielded group of storm giants. Steve raised his shield to block his face and his landing crushed the phalanx the storm giants had been creating. Halfway across the field from his brethren, Steve fought like a man possessed, using every bit of his speed and strength. The storm giants surrounded him and for a moment he could not see the Jötunn army.

 

He stopped thinking, stopped worrying, stopped planning, and just... _changed_.

 

Someone screamed his name and Steve spun, lifting the fallen shield of a storm giant and hurling it as hard as he could. It slammed into the side of a mammoth that had been charging his direction and the mammoth fell dead. As it collapsed heavily, sending a rumble through the ground, Steve stood his ground.

 

Once more, standing in the middle of the dead, Steve watched the storm giants retreat.

 

He wanted to follow, to pursue them into their caves and finish this now. Instead, he heaved a deep sigh, grit his teeth and turned back towards Utgard.

 

* * *

 

 

In celebration of another skirmish victory, they ate the mammoths left on the field. Steve’s group took the one he had downed. He sat as high up as he could manage and kept his silence. It was not that he had nothing kind to say, but that he felt his words would only contain more demands for something he had no control over. He tried to do what they had suggested.

 

Steve was learning he hated giving up control. Jötunheim as a whole demanded he do it anyway.

 

They didn’t agree on much.

 

* * *

 

 

**Approximately 6 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim**

 

Between a seemingly endless volley of fighting, when they found a modicum of peace, two Jötunn warriors approached Steve’s small group while they were showing Steve the great expanse at the edge of Utgard. His group had suffered a couple losses in one of the battles and others had simply found relatives and moved on. Ólafur, Eirkir, Ađalbjörg, Brynja, Sverrir, Fannar and Hjordis were all he could call his group. They were...well, they were sort of his family.

 

The two warriors were greeted with tentative waves and Steve stared down at them from atop a high wall. He had begun to climb as high as possible to keep himself out from underfoot. It was a rare thing now for him to walk on the ground beside his family. Now, he ran along the stone buildings. It helped keep him prepared for battle with beings far larger than himself. He had to maintain the high ground or he would forever be climbing upward. He went into battle on the backs of giants and returned home on them as well.

 

“Ragnheiđr,” Sverrir called, stepping forward. “What brings you out here?”

 

“That one,” Ragnheiđr said, pointing upward to Steve.

 

“Does Laufey need me?” Steve called down, taking in the newcomers in thinly veiled hope.

 

“No, we seek to join you,” the other giant replied, looking at Steve. “I am known as Þórvaldr. You are said to be Ymir’s gift to us.”

 

Steve descended until he could be at eye level with Þórvaldr and Ragnheiđr. The former had a sort of green fin like Eiríkr but it curved down the center of his back, the latter was shorted than Brynja but with wide clever eyes.

 

“I’m just a lost Midgardian,” he told them.

 

“He is modest and does not understand our world yet,” Ađalbjörg interjected, shaking her head.

 

Ragnheiđr looked to Þórvaldr who nodded. “We want to join you.”

 

Steve sighed, but shrugged. “Door’s always open. Welcome to the family.”

 

“What door?” Ragnheiđr asked him, but the other giants just laughed.

 

* * *

  

Steve had been on Jötunheim for five cycles now and he had never been caught entirely off-guard by a snowstorm before. Usually he got fair warning from Ađalbjörg or Brynja, or Bor, the man who came to him in whispers in the wind, would ensure he had at least a heads-up. This time, as he ranged outside the boundaries of Utgard just for something to do, the storm came upon him between one breath and the next.

 

He staggered under the onslaught of the fierce winds, unhindered by the open landscape and in an instant he was lost.

 

Utgard had been to his right a moment ago, the spires dark structures against the cloudless sky, and he had been gazing up at the alien constellations wondering which small speck of light could be Midgard. Now only a wall of swirling snow was to his right and left and ahead and behind. He hunched down, bringing his furs up tight and burrowing into the nearest drift. There was no telling how long the storm would take to blow over and he would be dead in an hour or two if he chanced the disorienting storm.

 

He let the storm build a fort around him, keeping a bubble of sorts around his head with his furs and his shield.

 

It seemed to go on forever, but Steve just closed his eyes and waited, digging deep into the practice of patience he had been trying to develop. The storm would pass, as all of them did, and he would find a way out of the snowdrift and back to Utgard. For now, he had to wait.

 

* * *

 

A whisper woke him and Steve blinked back into awareness.

 

His head was still above the snow, but everything else was covered. The air was still and not even a flake fell. Sighing, his chest tight, Steve began the arduous process of releasing himself. As he carved a space for his limbs, he heard the tell-tale sounds of a giants march. Pausing, he waited.

 

From above him, where an outcropping of stone protected him from some of the storm, a giant leap down and was followed by a great many. Steve stayed still and quiet, watching the storm giants as they headed for Utgard. There were more than Nedra normally brought for a skirmish and he worried what that meant for the rest of them. Some of them were carrying woven baskets on their shoulders. Steve felt _heat_ from them, but also heard the sounds of crying.

 

As soon as he had relative certainty that no more giants were going to come leaping over him, he pulled himself free from the snow and started after them. Covered thoroughly in snow and bits of ice, he felt camouflaged and he moved with the storm giants like a ghost, darting between their feet. Steve could see his group, out ahead of the rest, and he saw Brynja scanning the field for him. He swore to come back before the next battle. She was probably worried sick.

 

Breathing deep, Steve tapped into that feeling he had felt in the mountain and called to her. He saw the moment she felt it too. Her eyes found him amidst the storm giants and she gasped. His family leaned towards her and whispered to her and she hurriedly whispered back, not pointing or gesturing at him.

 

Steve was about to make his way back to his people’s side, but as the storm giants came to a stop, he found himself beside Nedra. She was glaring at Laufey and Steve made a split second decision.

 

Pulling himself up using the mammoth’s long hair, Steve crawled up to Nedra’s shoulder and held his gauntlet up. Laufey saw him at the same time Nedra felt him and the queen stiffened.

 

“So you would stoop to such craven tactics, Laufey?” Nedra called, her shoulders almost like stone beneath Steve’s feet.

 

Laufey looked at Steve and he knew he was going to deal with a backlash later. He hadn’t even _meant_ to be out in that storm! Still, he had been ordered to do nothing.

 

“I acted of my own accord,” Steve told her, gripping onto her hair tightly, in case she thought to throw him off. “It wasn’t Laufey.”

 

Chuckling low in her throat, Nedra glanced at Steve from the corner of her eye. “Laufey cannot control a simple Midgardian?”

 

Steve opened his mouth, but Laufey spoke before he could. “I will deal with the Midgardian, Nedra. Take your people off my lands.”

 

“I will not stop,” Nedra swore, raising her hand. The giants who carried baskets readied to throw them. Steve brought his gauntlet closer to Nedra’s neck.

 

“Don’t do it, Nedra,” Steve warned her and she stared at him as much as she could since he was so close.

 

“You would kill me as you killed Brimer?”

 

Steve’s jaw worked and he shook his head. “I don’t want to kill you, but I can’t let you hurt my family.”

 

“Funny,” Nedra smiled, but it was strained. “You _destroyed_ my family. This war, every Jötunn who perishes, is because of _you_.”

 

Steve pulled his arm back, intent on ending this war here and now. Nedra flicked her hand, a couple storm giants threw their baskets into the air and she struck them with her white flame. They burst in the air, raining hot, burning coals down on Laufey’s army. The coal burned through some Jötunn, killing them instantly. The Jötunn scattered a bit, avoiding the fire, and Steve brought his fanged gauntlet down on Nedra’s neck. Before he could connect, she laughed.

 

“Look to your family, Midgardian! Their children ran down upon them!”

 

Steve looked to the baskets, the _whimpering and crying_ baskets, and he remembered that Eiríkr did not know what happened to his children.

 

“Stop!” Steve shouted, seeing the other baskets. There were so _many_. “I _will_ kill you if you hurt them.”

 

“If you kill me, the children will also die,” Nedra smiled down at Steve. “Get your Midgardian paws off me before I kill them for spite.”

 

Steve’s hands shook and he released Nedra’s hair, sliding down her shoulder to where her riding mammoth’s head bobbed in front of her. She glared at him, at his gauntlet, and she seethed.

 

“That _demon_ would bless you and ignore us?”

 

“Hela isn’t a demon,” he countered, thinking of her relative kindness concerning him.

 

“She gave you the power to fell a king,” Nedra noted and glanced to Laufey. “But I am no king.”

 

Steve looked back to his people. They were watching him closely.

 

“Let the children go,” he demanded, but Nedra only laughed.

 

“Go to your king and take my demands with you,” Nedra pushed at him with a finger. “He will meet with me or I will bring more pain to his people than just little children.”

 

Steve stepped back, preparing to dismount the mammoth. “You’re wrong. Hela’s no demon. _You_ are.”

 

* * *

 

“You defied my direct command!” Laufey had not waited to bring Steve to task for his disobedience. They stood just within the main thoroughfare. Steve had, out of respect, kept to the ground. He kept his mouth shut. “Ađalbjörg may believe you to be Ymir’s grace, but you have no right to defy me.”

 

“Majesty,” Steve said, keeping his head down. “There was a storm. I got caught up in it. I didn’t plan to be outside Utgard. I swear.”

 

“Your word is air, _empty_ air,” Laufey turned toward Steve’s family, and they also bowed their heads. “All of you are _exiled_.”

 

Steve stepped forward, risking death to gain Laufey’s attention. “Nedra has the children, Majesty. Those baskets on their backs were deterrents. The children were _inside_. She’s putting them up against your pride,” he looked to Ađalbjörg who sighed in understanding.

 

“What does she want?” Laufey demanded of him and Steve stepped closer.

 

“She wants to meet with you.”

 

Scoffing, Laufey made his way back to his throne. “She will not command me, no more than you will defy me.”

 

Steve knew he had a short window to win back the Jötunn king and he hurried after him. “Take her offer.”

 

“You are _exiled_ , Midgardian. Leave before I kill you myself.”

 

“Take her offer as a distraction. While she’s occupied pretending to control you, I’ll free the children. Once we have them, she’ll lose her leverage.”

 

Laufey paused, glancing down to Steve. “You had a plan.”

 

“No, not at first,” Steve admitted. “But it’s what I did on Midgard. I made plans, I followed through.”

 

Laufey looked back to the battlefield, to the still burning embers of Nedra’s attack. “What plan have you now, Midgardian?”

 

Steve looked to his family, who had followed tentatively behind the king. “My family and I are loyal to you, Majesty. Let us prove it again.”

 

* * *

 

**Approximately 5 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim**

 

With narrowed eyes, Steve watched the approach of Nedra from atop one of the lower spires. She still had the baskets on her soldiers’ backs and Steve looked to Laufey. He nodded and Steve leapt off the spire, falling into Brynja’s waiting hands below. She shifted him to her shoulder and he gripped tightly to her crown.

 

At a fast clip, Brynja joined Ragnheiđr and Eiríkr, and the three of them took off for the mountain. Steve watched Nedra as she stopped and began to speak with Laufey. If the Jötunn king was smooth enough, Steve and the rest would be planted in the mountain before she returned.

 

“I never thought I would be going back,” Eiríkr commented, shaking his head. “I still wonder what your Midgardian friends ever saw in you.”

 

“Admit it,” Steve said to him, laughing. “I’m more fun.”

 

“Sure,” Brynja poked him. “We enjoy living on the edge.”

 

“Of course, that’s why we get along,” Steve smiled at them.

 

Eiríkr didn’t smile back, his eyes focused on the mountain. “When you find them, ask for Dagný, Inga and Úlfr.”

 

“I will,” Steve swore, meeting Eiríkr’s eyes. “They’re alive, Eiríkr.”

 

“You don’t know that, Stígandr.”

 

“I had hope before. I have it now.”

 

Eiríkr looked away. “It is more than you can ask of me.”

 

“Then I won’t,” Steve nodded towards the mountain. “I’ll just prove it you.”

 

“You must have much to make up for,” Ragnheiđr said suddenly, and Steve frowned at him.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“There is always something for you to prove. Something for you to fight,” Ragnheiđr’s gaze sent a chill down Steve’s spine. “One day you will create an enemy where none stood. Guard your fear, Stígandr, that it does not overtake your instinct.”

 

Steve had nothing to say that, but it seemed Ragnheiđr didn’t expect a response. They continued on to the mountain in silence.

 

* * *

 

As before, Steve left the giants outside the mountain proper and snuck inside. He immediately had to slow down and hide.

 

Nedra had taken her husband’s death as a chance to redecorate. Torches lit up the walls and made creeping in the shadows near impossible. Steve had to dodge behind giants to get out of the well-lit entrance and then use one giant as leverage to leap up to a hole in the wall. He slid into the crevice and winced as his shield clipped the stone. He ducked his head and hoped no one had heard that. From the movements of the giants, he was safe. Steve settled against the stone and waited.

 

There was no shortage of time on Jötunheim and Steve found himself in need of things to occupy his mind while his body remained still. It was something he had taken to doing while in Utgard as well, since there wasn’t really much he could there. There weren’t jobs, at least not any that he would truly be any help with, and though he had fought by their side, most of the Jötunn still did not trust him much. So, when he wasn’t with his family, Steve would climb the spires, explore Utgard, or find a relatively warm place and practice patience.

 

It was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

 

The silence Birgir had talked about wasn’t just the quiet of the world when there was a break in the storms. There was silence in every aspect of his life now. It was as if he had to _mute_ parts of himself because they interfered with his survival. His brashness would not rewarded here, unless it was aligned with the powers that be, and the speed he had pursued things with served no purpose here. The giants had long lives and shorter expectations for their day-to-day lives.

 

Humans, by comparison, were rocketing through life without pause, bypassing everything on the way.

 

What struck Steve the most when he sat in silence, was that he hadn’t spent anywhere near _enough_ time with the people he cared about. Rushing from one thing to the next, one call to arms to another, he had allowed himself to be contented with anything. There was always something to do and somewhere to be. Being static was torture and while he watched young men his age and younger run off to protect their country, he found that sitting was tantamount to a sin.

 

He wished he had slowed down before going after Schmidt, taken Peggy dancing, kissed her one more time. He should have found a moment for leave and dragged Bucky to Coney Island. They should have made more memories together. He should have gotten to know the Commandos better; they were brothers after all. He should have relished every second he had with them.

 

Sitting in the darkness of a mountain on an alien world, Steve regretted putting his missions over his loved ones. He regretted fighting _for_ them, but not so much _with_ them. Sure, he stood at their sides and had their backs, but he didn’t have enough moments that weren’t tainted with war. He wanted to remember them happy and healthy, warm and comfortable. He wanted to see his friends growing old with him. He wanted to be human.

 

Despite the fact that he was vastly different from the normal inhabitants of this realm, Steve didn’t feel human here. Normal humans couldn’t die and come back like he had. They didn’t fight with _literal_ giants and win. Frostbite should have taken him a couple cycles ago. He hadn’t even lost a limb to the cold, even when they were black and numb. If he hadn’t already died, he might think it impossible. Put to a test unlike anything they could have created on Earth, Steve was beginning to see the true limits of his abilities. If he was careful and lucky, he could survive damn near anything.

 

Maybe...maybe he could survive on Jötunheim. Maybe he could do more than _survive_. Maybe if he gave it a real shot, he could learn to live here.

 

He thought of doing more than hoping for a future that may never come, of forging something here with permanence. Something built to last.

 

As Brynja signaled him that Nedra was returning, Steve decided saving the future generations of Jötunn would be a good start.

 

* * *

 

 

They brought the children in the baskets, but the fires had been put out. Still whimpering, they had to be hurting and terrified. Steve slipped out of the crevice in the wall as soon as the giants turned their backs, creeping along behind them. Unlike the first time he had done this, none of the giants seemed to notice he was there.

 

He reached out to the children with that same feeling he used to find Brynja, reassuring them as best he could. Waves of emotion like a multitude of small Jötunn hands enveloped him and his mission solidified in his mind.

 

He wasn’t going to leave this mountain without _every single Jötunn child_ in tow. He would tear this mountain down to its roots before he let anything else happen to them.

 

Steve had no trouble memorizing the pathways through the mountain now, though he did see his hand print every so often on the walls. It seems that glow-weed was hard to remove. He took an odd satisfaction in knowing that centuries from now, his hand print might still be here on this wall. It was a primitive feeling, but Steve enjoyed it nonetheless.

 

They didn’t take the children to the dungeons, but further up the mountain and deeper into the more polished halls. They passed the throne room, but he didn’t see Nedra sitting at the throne. The mirror was gone as were the Jötunn heads. He would have liked to reclaim Birgir’s, if only so that Ađalbjörg and Brynja could have something to bury. He wasn’t sure what Jötunn did for funerals, as fire seemed unlikely, and since he wasn’t trusted, he had yet to attend any. He hoped he never found out.

 

The storm giants continued on through the mountain until they came to a room with a heavy wood door. They threw it open and marched inside, depositing the baskets in a row in the middle of the cramped square room. It must have been a pantry of sorts, though it looked like it hadn’t been used in ages. The shelves were sparsely stocked  and covered in dust and the tables set about the edges of the room were as well. All the walls were solid stone. Steve darted in while they were distracted and hid behind one of the shelves.

 

As soon as the giants left, slamming the door shut behind them and locking it securely, Steve hurried over to the nearest basket. Whoever was inside of it sniffled and shifted, rocking the basket slightly. Steve dug his fingers into the weaving of the basket and climbed to the top where the lid was held down with a metal lock. Digging his fingers into the thick basket-weave, Steve ripped it off. It clattered to the floor behind him and he shoved the lid open.

 

Staring up at him, her ice crown no more than a thin layer over her dark blue skull, a giantess gasped in fear and covered her head. Shushing, Steve leaned over the opening.

 

“It’s alright. I’m here to rescue you. Can you tell me your name?” When the little giantess only peeked up at him. He sighed and put on his best smile. “I’m Stígandr.”

 

The giantess looked towards the door, but Steve shook his head. “They’re gone. You’re safe for now. Can you move?”

 

“Y...yes.”

 

“Alright, I’m going to need your help with the others. Let’s get you out of there.”

 

Steve climbed back down off the basket and the young giantess rose to standing, pulling herself up the side. She was only about two or three feet taller than him. He caught her as she came down and she stared at him as if he were something strange. He supposed he was.

 

“What’s your name?” he asked once more, brushing ashes from her shoulders.

 

“I...I am Dagný,” she answered and he smiled bright.

 

“Your father is going to be so happy to see you again.”

 

“Father survived?” Dagný asked, eagerness on her young face.

 

“I got him out of the mountain. Now I’m here for you and the others. Can you give me a hand?”

 

Dagný nodded and they started breaking the locks of the other baskets. As Dagný convinced the little ones out, Steve ripped off the locks. Soon he had them all standing in a group in front of him. Overall, they were all taller than him. Steve held up his hand and cleared his throat.

 

“We need to get out of this mountain. There are Jötunn waiting beside the river for you all. Including Eiríkr,” Steve said to Dagný. She hugged her little sister and brother close. “I need you all to do as I say.”

 

“What are you?” one of them asked. Of the baskets they had opened, only six were empty. He couldn’t find the speaker amidst forty sets of red eyes.

 

“I’m Midgardian. I was stranded from my own world by accident. Jötunn saved my life, so I returned the favor,” The children stared down at him and he looked back. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

Nedra was pleased.

 

The little Midgardian had taken her message to Laufey and, surprisingly, the frigid king had agreed. She had not been able to speak to him for half a millennia. Her father had set-up a marriage between them after Laufey’s queen Fárbauti had given him no children. Or so that is what she had heard before her father’s death.

 

After, she had learned the truth. Fárbauti had produced a child, a son, but it had been small and feeble. Nedra’s father had hoped to play on Laufey’s frustrations for an heir and pawn her off. He underestimated the Jötunn king’s disdain for non-Jötunn giants. Nedra was as appealing as an Asgardian to Laufey. It struck her pride, but not her persistence. She became a Queen, anyway, and now she found herself unwilling to so easily lose her place.

 

If she wanted to maintain any honor in the face of her husband’s death, she had to declare war. However, if she wanted to _truly_ win, then she needed to do what she had been so sure of as a child. She would marry Laufey, she would produce heirs, and she would rule all of Jötunheim.

 

Of course, all of that hinged on winning Laufey.

 

And if Nedra could not win the Jötunn king, she would crush him with flame.

 

Standing in what had become _her_ throne room by providence, Nedra drew upon magic she had spent her entire childhood honing.

 

“Hear me, Vanna - wherever you may be! Queen Nedra commands you to appear! You may not disobey my command! You _must_ heed the orders of Queen Nedra!”

 

“I hear thee, my queen! And I obey!”

 

In the air before her, formed from the air itself into something solid, Vanna appeared. The air spirit aided Nedra in seeing things beyond her normal sight. Her husband had used the gifts of Hela to achieve his sight, which was not the most reliable, but Nedra’s came in the form of something invisible and certain. Vanna could go unseen almost anywhere and could see anything. She did not need to see the future if she had a perfect grasp of the present.

 

Raising her hand, Nedra commanded the attention of Vanna.

 

“Seek out the Midgardian, ensure he is not meddling. Then find Laufey, I must know what he plans to do.”

 

“Aye, my queen!” Vanna flitted off out of the throne room and Nedra relaxed into her throne.

 

The mirror that had taken up the wall had been in pieces when her husband had been killed. She was glad it was gone. There should only _one_ Queen the mountain of the storm giants and Hela would not claim the title. Nedra had not survived Brimer’s groping hand to be unseated by some demon witch.

 

She looked up as Vanna reappeared. “Surely you have not seen all so quickly?”

 

“My queen,” Vanna sounded fearful and Nedra sat up straighter. “The Midgardian is not here.”

 

“Not here?”

 

“I cannot sense his presence. He is clouded from my vision.”

 

Nedra shot to her feet. “See to Laufey. I will search the mountain.”

 

“My queen,” Vanna flitted off once more.

 

Calling a guard to her side, Nedra headed for the Jötunn children.

 

* * *

  

Getting the door unlocked was a challenge unto itself. He couldn’t rip it off like he had with the baskets and he had lost his sword, so he couldn’t try to pick it. The children had gathered around him as he thought up a plan and he eyed the door itself. A smirk worked its way onto his face when he saw the way the hinges were formed. In a way, it was like taking down that flagpole at Camp Lehigh.

 

He got a leg up from Úlfr and jammed his shield between the parts of the lift-off hinge. He had them throw him in the air and he landed on his shield, forcing the top of the hinge to move out of place. The young Jötunn moved quickly, lifting it the rest of the way and throwing it aside. They repeated the process for the other two hinges and the door groaned as it began to fall inward, the lock meaningless. The Jötunn seemed to see the danger of it landing on the stone floor, so they worked as one to create a wave of ice that caught it almost silently.

 

Smiling at them, Steve waved them on. “Let’s go!”

 

It was almost like the first time he had staged an escape from Brimer’s mountain, except this time he wasn’t sure he could count on the survival of his mission if they were set upon by guards or worse. They had to move quietly, which was difficult with forty of them, but Steve did as best he could. He knew the way out, but getting there without being spotted was just short of a miracle. If he could get them near any exit, it would be a success. They could use ice like they had before and create a slide of some sort. Maybe even an ice wave like Ólafur had talked about.

 

The constant presence of fire had begun to slow down their pace and he had to repeatedly turn back to help one of the weaker ones back to their feet. The smallest one of them was no bigger than Steve himself had been before the serum. He didn’t know it was possible for them to get that small.

 

From deeper in the mountain, Steve heard the sounds of horns and of marching feet. Either Nedra was calling her people back to arms to return to Laufey already or that air spirit Laufey had warned him about had spotted them.

 

“We need to hurry!” he called out to them, and they pushed to speed up.

 

The mountain’s pathways were mapped out in Steve’s head, but they were incomplete. He had only gone where the storm giants had led him or where his instincts told him to go. Fannar’s recounting of the path from the dungeons to the outside had been changed partway through as Steve found the balcony. He knew how to get back to the balcony and out that way, but he also knew how to get to the front gates that faced the river and the gates that faced Utgard. He had lots of options going in.

 

Nedra must have realized that, too.

 

Steve was forced to abandon all his plans as the storm giants came charging towards them from every path he had been going to take and the Jötunn children screamed and cried as they were turned around and around. Steve pushed them towards the only path available, even though it went down further into the mountain. The storm giants pursued them and Steve stopped to hold them off.

 

The pathways were only wide enough for two giants walk abreast, so Steve was able to bottleneck them by felling the first few in such a way that their bodies piled like a wall. He leapt back to the other side, where the giants couldn’t reach him and threw his shield at the torches in the walls. They fell and he threw a few of them at the giants, catching the dead ones aflame.

 

Screaming came from the storm giants now and Steve took advantage of their distraction to catch up with the Jötunn.

 

The children must have heard the screaming and the fighting, because they had run a long ways deeper into the mountain. Down here, there was no need for torches. The halls seemed to glow with orange fire. There was heat from it, but it wasn’t as bad as the torches. He was still covered in a light sheen of sweat. The Jötunn looked at him in surprise as he rejoined them.

 

“You survived.”

 

“It’s what I do,” Steve quipped, taking in the group. They all looked exhausted. They had probably been starved and kept near fire for a few cycles. He was worried they might collapse before he got them to the river. “Okay, I know it’s hard, but we need to keep going. If we can’t go up, we have to go down. We’ll find a way out.”

 

“It’s too hot!” a very young one cried and he nodded.

 

“I know, I know,” he reached for the child and touched their leg. “But you’ve got to be strong just a little longer. Can you do that?”

 

The child blinked and swallowed before nodding. “Yes, Stígandr.”

 

“Alright,” he smiled and the children crowded him a little. “Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Brynja frowned as horns began to blow and the mountain came alive. Eiríkr was posted outside the balcony they had escaped from, Ragnheiđr had nestled himself outside the front gates and Brynja had taken up a place outside the gate aimed toward Utgard. The guards fidgeted and looked around for the danger, gazing toward Utgard.

 

Her home was quiet and still, having no need to attack the mountain when the storm giants made it clear they would do all the legwork. Instead, the danger must have come from within.

 

Fear shot through her heart as she imagined that Stígandr had been caught. It would truly be a _suicide_ mission if they charged in after him. She doubted Hela would take a liking to normal Jötunn. If the children were harmed or if Stígandr was caught, this mission would be a failure. She found she cared less about Laufey’s disappointment in them than she cared that Stígandr and the children were safe.

 

Reaching out, she searched for Stígandr in the mountain. Her awareness of him had been up high, where the Utgard entrance was located, but it pulled her downward until she was looking almost beneath her feet.

 

Why was Stígandr going _further_ into the mountain?

 

Worried, Brynja called to him.

 

After a long moment, he answered. She felt _heat_ throughout her entire body and swayed. The mountain was aflame! Stígandr was burning alive! He was dripping water like ice melting and her fear must have passed through to him. Reassurance washed over her and she felt his lack of fear. It struck her once more that he wasn’t Jötunn and would not be affected by the same things as her. He could withstand the heat of the mountain. Her fear turned to anger. What of the children? They surely couldn’t survive that kind of heat.

 

Again, reassurance.

 

Despite the fact that she trusted Stígandr, she hated that he never seemed to realize that failure was a possibility. He assumed he had won each battle long before he had actually begun to fight. It was dangerous thinking and she had warned him about it, but he had only smiled at her. Now, more than ever, she wished he would stop and think. His foolhardiness would get someone killed.

 

It registered with a fair amount of irony that it already had.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve pushed deeper into the mountain and the heat rose. He clenched his fist and grit his teeth, demanding the mountain give him a way out. All he needed was a path big enough for the children and he would be able to get them out. The path they followed seemed to go on forever, reaching warmer and warmer temperatures. A couple of the younger ones had fallen and not risen. He carried one in his arms, the older ones held the rest and he marched through what felt like the core of the planet.

 

“We will die here,” Dagný rasped, stumbling beside him. He didn’t pause. He couldn’t.

 

“No, I won’t let you.”

 

“You are a mortal with the confidence of a god. It is an ill-fated combination.”

 

“It’s kept me alive this long,” Steve wiped sweat from his brow before it could fall into his eyes. He could taste the salt of his skin on his lips.

 

“And those with you? How many of them survived?”

 

Steve’s jaw worked and he sighed, his body protesting the heat and his exertion. “I’m going to get you out of here. _Alive_.”

 

“The little ones will die before we reach the snow. They are not strong enough to withstand this heat.”

 

Steve closed his eyes, drawing on his inner strength, and begged the universe to give him something.

 

A roar so loud it cracked the stone walls around them erupted from the pathway ahead of them and Steve pulled up short. He looked around, wondering when the universe had ever been so prompt. The children gathered around each other in a little group and stared in terror down the path.

 

“What was that?” Úlfr asked, his voice thin and dry. He had shrunk by quite a bit.

 

Steve sighed, letting his worry seep out of him and into the air like his sweat. “We have to go find out.”

 

“Whatever’s down there could kill us.”

 

“What’s behind us _will_ ,” Steve pulled the child in his arms closer and started again.

 

“I do not like this,” Úlfr commented and his sisters agreed.

 

“It’s almost over,” Steve assured them, and himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The heat had risen to its highest point and the cramped path gave way to an enormous cavern. Steve staggered at the fresh wave of heat and the child in his arms moaned in pain. He held them closer, squinting into the bright orange flame that rose out of the deep hole in the center of the cavern. There was a sort of film over the top of it and he realized it was just like the strangeness of the mirror that he had seen Hela in.

 

It was a portal of some sort.

 

From the flame, rising like some demon from Steve’s worst nightmares, a red giant with yellow flames for a face and a black horned crown appeared. It’s eyes were glowing embers and it smiled at Steve with sharp teeth. He gasped as he stared up at it, terror rising within him. This creature wasn’t just a giant or a king...it felt like something different. Something _powerful_ beyond measure.

 

The ability for the flames of the storm giants to burn through Jötunn ice made more sense now. If Ymir existed as pure ice and snow, then whatever this was embodied fire.

 

The Jötunn children were crying and he jerked back into action, guiding them around the edge of the cavern until they reached another pathway. It was lit by the same orange light, but it was cooler than the cavern. He hurried the children ahead of them, giving the child in his arms to the first of the older children strong enough to carry it. Turning back, Steve looked to the fire giant that watched him.

 

It smiled wider and raised a hand that held a sword longer than Brynja was tall. Steve saw behind the giant a horde of smaller ones and the surface of the portal swelled. Something primal rushed through Steve’s chest and he fled.

 

The path grew wider as they went and darker, the flames slowly receding until he could feel the chill of winter once more. He had never been happier to feel snow on his face in his life. The Jötunn children gasped in relief and began to move a little faster. Steve breathed in the frigid air and ran a little faster himself. He had gotten them out.

 

As the children began to spill out into the snowdrifts and the bracing wind, there was a sonorous boom and the grey was painted bright yellow. Burning coals rained down and Steve shouted, running ahead of the children and pulling them out of range. One had been hit in the shoulder and Steve packed snow over it. Huddled together once more on the precipice of freedom, the children looked at him.

 

“Stay here,” he told them and ran out the open doorway. The storm giants began to rain down more coals and Steve let his shield take the brunt of it.

 

When there was a break in the onslaught, Steve picked up the nearest coal, ignoring the pain of it burning through his gloves, and threw it at the first storm giant he saw. It toppled over with a crash and Steve picked up more, casting the coals back to the storm giants. They charged him in between one throw and the next, so Steve was forced to fight. The ground was sloped downwards away from the mountain and he had to lean forward to remain upright.

 

Getting the leverage to climb was near impossible and he was stuck on the ground where the giants had the advantage. He blocked the swing of a huge sword with his shield, but was forced to roll out of the way of an axe a second later. Snow kicked up like a cloud in the wake of storm giant boots and Steve ducked between giants, getting closer to the opening in the mountain. He could see the Jötunn children staring at him and knew he had to get them out. If they stayed, Nedra would hear about his location and send more soldiers to hold them back.

 

Thinking fast, Steve let a sword land a foot or two from him and grabbed hold of it. The giant pulled it back and Steve slid before getting a better grip, slicing his palm open. His blood dripped onto the ground and he ran up the sword, jumping at the giant’s face and stabbing his fanged gauntlet into the giant’s forehead. It staggered and he pushed off the dead giant to another, but was snatched out of the air and thrown to the ground viciously. All the air whooshed out of him and he lay with his mouth open like a guppy, tears clouding his vision. A shadow passed over him and he heard a shout. His whole back was on fire and his first intake of breath hurt terribly. He stayed still for a moment, trying to work up the strength to move.

 

Steve blinked his vision clear and saw the children rushing out of the opening into the snow. There were still storm giants standing and he pushed through the pain, lurching back into battle. As soon as he was upright, he saw that Eiríkr and Ragnheiđr had found them. The two Jötunn were able to use their ice to its full advantage since the storm giants had used up their fire in their initial attack. Daggers of ice embedded in chests and Ragnheiđr blocked attacks with a kite shield made of solid ice.

 

Steve joined in, running up Eiríkr’s arm and leaping down to kill the storm giants. They made quick work of the guards that had been posted at this entrance and Steve hurried over to the children who were still working their way out of the entrance. The little ones were the worst off and he took one and scooped snow into his shield, cradling it against the cold.

 

“We need to hurry. Nedra will send more soldiers,” Steve said, looking up to Eiríkr.

 

Eiríkr didn’t respond. He was staring at the group of children with astonishment and disbelief on his face. Dagný, Úlfr and Inga were looking back, equally stunned.

 

“Papa?” Inga whispered, her voice reedy.

 

“My children,” Eiríkr began to weep, rushing forward to sweep them up in his arms. They were so small because of the heat that they could have all fit in his palms. “I thought I had lost you.”

 

“We did not believe, Stígandr,” Úlfr admitted, crying. “We did not believe he had saved you.”

 

Eiríkr looked to Steve and there was something _warm_ in his eyes. Steve smiled without teeth and nodded. The child in his arms whimpered and Steve got back on task.

 

“We need to get them to the river,” He broke into a sprint and Eiríkr followed, Ragnheiđr pulling up the rear with the rest of the children.

 

* * *

 

 

He felt Brynja before he saw her as they came around the mountain. She hurried forward, meeting them nearly in the same place where they had come after the others had been rescued. Steve waded out into the water with the child in his arms, submerging them both. Ragnheiđr was ensuring all the children were headed towards the water and Brynja stepped in, helping them submerge themselves. The children felt incredibly warm.

 

Steve resurfaced, the child blinking in relief. It had grown only a little. The little giant crawled up out of the river and Steve took the next one to come to the water’s edge. With all of them working together, it took very little time.

 

The mountain rumbled and fire exploded from the entrances as if someone had lit charges inside it. Steve pulled himself out of the water and walked over to Brynja.

 

“There’s something in that mountain. Something...strong.”

 

Brynja’s face broke out in fear. “Something worse than Hela?”

 

“Much worse,” he decided, looking at the recovering Jötunn. “Especially for Jötunn.”

 

Ragnheiđr patted a few of the children on the heads. “We must inform our king of what you have seen.”

 

“What _did_ you see?” Brynja asked him and he sighed.

 

“The devil.”

 

* * *

 

**Approximately 4 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim**

 

Saving the children had a positive effect on the Jötunn outlook on him, but Steve was past the point of caring if they liked him or not. He wasn’t going to live however long his life would be under the strain of being  _likable_. What mattered was that he saved the Jötunn he could and that they defeated the storm giants.

 

Surtur had become a familiar name to him since they had returned with the children. It was the name that Laufey had given the fire giant he described. It was a worrisome development, since fighting Surtur on top of the storm giants was perhaps too much. Steve read Laufey’s reluctance to face that kind of threat. Steve didn’t want to face it either if he had a choice.

 

Nedra had not attacked. It was another thing to worry about. The agreed upon meeting was coming up and the Jötunn were high strung with anxiety. A normal fight, one on one, with the storm giants was fine, but fighting with creatures like Surtur dampened their bloodlust.

 

Now, of all times, he hoped Ymir was real. If they were bringing titans into battle, it was only fair that both sides had one.

 

The worlds Brynja had described were becoming more than tales of fantastical places he could have landed on. Jötunheim and Helheim weren’t the only living breathing myths. Muspelheim was also real. That must mean that Alfheim and Svartalfheim, Nifleheim and Nidavellir, and Asgard were as well. What else lay out in the cosmos, just waiting to become known to Midgard? What other worlds were out there? Which ones had Skrull and Chitauri? Was every star a possible solar system with potentially inhabited planets? And if magic was as real here as everywhere else...what forms did it take?

 

The possibilities that Surtur’s presence brought forth in Steve’s mind were innumerable. The universe seemed colossal now.

 

“It has always been expansive, Stígandr,” Ađalbjörg told him, smiling at him. A couple of the children had taken to him and he found himself always in their company. “Your ignorance of it does not mean it did not exist.”

 

“But _every_ star,” Steve emphasized, looking up at the rare cloudless sky. The cosmos was all around them. He remembered looking up at the stars when he was with the Commandos, but now he saw them for more than navigation and decoration. Life existed in places mankind had never even seen with their naked eye. He had known that Jötunheim was real, but he hadn’t thought about what else could be. “There’s so many...”

 

“If you live long enough, Stígandr,” Ólafur said, bouncing a child on his knee. “You will see those worlds with your own eyes. You will walk on their soil, breathe in their air.” The old giant looked wistfully up at the sky. “I used to call it star-riding when I was young and we still possessed the Casket of Ancient Winters. I have seen so many worlds. Perhaps, with Ymir’s blessing, you will see them, too.”

 

Steve looked at the stars and something deep within him reached out. One of those stars was Midgard. One of those tiny dots was home. Maybe he would see it again. Maybe he would star-ride his way home. The hope was tainted with the bitterness of being unable to leave, but he tucked it away inside his chest. He couldn’t live on _maybes_.

 

He had to work on absolutes.

 

* * *

 

 

The spires were Steve’s domain and he spent the days waiting for Nedra’s arrival atop them. He knew Utgard by heart now, but he liked the relative solitude the height gave him, as well as the sense of closeness to the stars. Occasionally he would see the figure called Bor and he heard stories of a kingdom of gold. Of war and of betrayal. He wondered sometimes if he was projecting and the thin air was making him hallucinate.

 

One thing he had begun to do, though he did not tell his family, was call to Ymir. If the frost deity had really used him to help his people, then Steve was going to need something better than the word of his family.

 

“I don’t even know if you’re real,” Steve whispered into the air, his voice carried away by the wind. “But if you are, if you’re listening...we could use some help.”

 

It wasn’t like praying to God back on Earth. He hated to think that it felt more reliable.

 

 _Forgive me, Ma_.

 

He received no response from Ymir, at least not instantaneously, and he sighed. Just like with the God of Earth, he would just have to wait. It didn’t bite into him as bad to accept that. Waiting seemed to be the only thing he _could_ do.

 

Steve closed his eyes and breathed in the thin air, letting his worries and fear fade away into the winds. He couldn’t control anything right now, so he wouldn’t try to. He would deal with what came to him. He laid back and let his feet dangle over the edge.

 

There was something like peace in the air up here, unaffected by the war down below. Besides, he could see the stars from up here and it calmed him. Space had never been something he dwelled on back on Midgard. He had enough to deal with on the ground and from the planes that passed overhead. Thinking beyond the little blue marble he lived on wasn’t going to help him win the war. Now, he realized that he had been wrong. Winning the war had only been part of the mission. There was so much more.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve stayed out of sight when Nedra returned, keeping watch from high above on a spire. She left her soldiers a good distance away and Laufey did as well. They met in the middle. It was a general consensus that the sight of Steve after the escape of the children would cause her to act rashly. They were hesitant now that they knew what lurked in the mountain and some diplomacy was in order.

 

He didn’t mind so much, staying out of it, and from up here it all looked petty and tiny.

 

“Where is your Midgardian, Laufey?” Nedra glanced all around but pressed against the spire as he was, there was no way she would see him. “Where is your little _thief_?”

 

“He returned that which was not yours to hold. He was no thief.”

 

“So it was by _your_ command that he came into my mountain?”

 

“No, he is not of my people. He is an interloper. A good deed done for my people does not make him ours.”

 

“Why would it not?”

 

“Is that what makes you allies with beasts you cannot hope to control?” Laufey tilted his head as he did when he thought little of the person in front of him. “Your reign will be quite short.”

 

“Your reign will end before mine with no heirs to show for it,” Nedra laughed cheerfully. “How disappointing. I once believed you to be the rightful king of Jötunheim. I was so naïve.”

 

“You still are, Nedra. You think Surtur will be pleased with a mountain, with a _single_ war? He will burn the world down with you in middle. We _all_ risk our ends if you continue this course.”

 

“You’ve given me no choice,” Nedra’s confidence wavered, but she maintained a brave face. “I have nothing without Brimer.”

 

“You would have nothing with me,” Laufey sounded more caring than in all the moments Steve had known him combined. “Not if you remain allied with Surtur.”

 

Nedra’s head jerked and she blinked. “What did you say?”

 

Laufey’s piercing eyes bored into Nedra’s and a small smirk formed on his face. “I cannot be your king if I am dead.”

 

Nedra’s mouth fell open and she seemed vulnerable all at once. Like a little girl. “No,” her voice was weak. “This is a trap.”

 

“I have no need to trap you, Nedra.”

 

“You fear Surtur.”

 

“As you should.”

 

“I will not take you out of fear,” Nedra set her jaw, pulling her white fur hood tighter around her head. A little of her dark hair showed at the edge.

 

“Is that not what you are trying to do now?”

 

“You gave me no choice,” Nedra shifted uncomfortably, gazing to the soldiers far behind her. They looked at her with narrowed eyes. “ _They_ gave me no choice.”

 

“If you would rule here, at my side, then let that be your first lesson. They are not _allowed_ a choice. They serve at _your_ whim, at _your_ mercy.”

 

Nedra swallowed. “And you would show me?”

 

“Not with a threat like Surtur under your mountain. As long as that portal remains, I would not take you if you held the Casket of Ancient Winters in your hands.”

 

“Then it will be destroyed,” Nedra declared, straightening where she stood. Her confidence returned. “But I want the Midgardian.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Twice he has stolen into my mountain, twice he has made our weaknesses clear. I would seek his tactical mind.”

 

Laufey considered it. “If you can find him, he is yours.”

 

Steve frowned down at Laufey and pulled away from the edge as soon as Nedra began her retreat. He didn’t realize his life was on the table in this negotiation. Figures. The Jötunn still don’t see him as one of them. He ran his fingers over his gauntlet and he contemplated a nickname earned when he had returned with it. _Kingslayer_. Killing Laufey would win him no allies. But Nedra...once the portal was gone, she would no longer be such a threat. There would be little chance of the storm giants rising in war against Utgard and the Jötunn if he killed her. They would be too busy scrambling for a new leader.

 

But he wasn’t an assassin, even if he had thrown it around. Ólafur was right, at least in this, that they fought the storm giants on the battlefield. Though he tried to convince himself of that, he thought of the children, of their tortured cries and the baskets of flame. Maybe the dark was where he operated now. Maybe...maybe he _was_ capable of it. If only in this, if only for the children, if only for now.

 

He accepted his own willingness and began his descent.


	14. The Calm Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain is melting. This chapter has been cut in half because I wasn't even three-fourths finished with it and it was nearly 10k. A comment kick-started an idea that I had to set-up the story for now for the payoff later. It took a bit, but we're back on track. The next chapter should be posted soon as it's nearly done. Hope the chapter didn't get too rambling.
> 
> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**Approximately 3 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim**

 

“I hear Nedra is bringing a whole host of her attendants. She’s going to be staying in the citadel after the wedding,” Þórvaldr gossiped, moving his painted stones in a strange pattern. Sverrir grunted and took a couple of his own off the board. Steve was beginning to get the hang of it now, though it was not enough for him to chance the humiliating defeat if he challenged someone. He had taken to calling it ‘space checkers’, but no one understood what that meant but him.

 

“Will you hide from her, Stígandr?” Úlfr asked, peeking up at him from under his father’s arm. Eiríkr seemed completely at peace now and Steve was glad for his hand in it.

 

“It’ll be more trouble than it’s worth to hide. I’ll face her head-on,” He knew where the citadel was, he could just go ahead of her and scope out the place, find his entrances and exits, give himself some cover. “She wants my mind anyway.”

 

“It is probably a ruse to get you close enough to kill,” Brynja said, mixing some herbs together. Apparently there was a sort of pie she could make with glow-weed and fox that was to die for.

 

“Well, she can try. I won’t make it easy for her,” Steve was making plans of his own. He wouldn’t act without certainty that he had to, however. Laufey would probably call for him if he wanted someone dealt with. Steve had proven himself well enough.

 

“She will not kill him,” Hjördís told them, her voice sure and steady. “Nedra would take any weapons from Laufey and make them her own. It is a matter of time before...” Blinking, Hjördís turned away. She did not continue.

 

Brynja stared at her grandmother in worry and then shook her head. “If you would go to her, then do not bring your pride. Some things are not yours to decide.”

 

Steve nodded, though he would make no promises. “What is the plan?”

 

Ađalbjörg was repairing his gloves which had been burned and cut and she sighed. “Until a ceremony of marriage has been performed, nothing is set in stone. Nedra will have to reside in Laufey’s kingdom for a while, though she would retain the mountain. Laufey does not want it anyway, it is inhospitable to our kind, even without Surtur warming it up. He would gladly allow her to keep the mountain if it meant she was not within Utgard for a great while.”

 

“So he’ll marry her and the war will end?”

 

“First she must destroy the portal between this world and Muspelheim. Laufey will never vow himself to her if she does not uphold her end of the deal.”

 

“Who is going to watch her destroy it?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Laufey will send someone to oversee it, right? To ensure she does it?”

 

“Of course, though I’m not sure who would. You cannot go on behalf of Laufey as she has demanded you as a boon,”Ađalbjörg beckoned him forward and he came closer, holding out his hand and she handed him his gloves. He slid them on and tested his movement. Nearly good as new.

 

“Thank you,” he said and smiled up at her. She patted him gently with her long black nail. “Nothing has ever ended this easily before.”

 

“Do you want war now?” Ólafur asked him, frowning at Steve. “You cannot make up your mind.”

 

“It isn’t war that I want,” he argued, trying not to sound put-out. “But she had children as hostages, swore vengeance on Laufey, on _me_ , and now she wants to make it all go away because she got her man? It doesn’t add up.”

 

“You think she has more devious plans for us?” Brynja asked.

 

“She _has_ to.”

 

“Or after pursuing war so diligently, you cannot stomach the idea of it being over,” Ragnheiđr said and patted Þórvaldr on the arm, then pointed out to the expanse beyond the open archway to nowhere that Steve considered a window.

 

A wolf was prowling in the expanses past Utgard. Steve wondered what was out there.

 

“It doesn’t set well with me, either, Stígandr,” Sverrir said, smacking his colored stone on the playing area. Þórvaldr shook his head, but removed a couple stones anyway. “The only advantage her people have over ours is Surtur’s fire. With it gone, she would once more be under the thumb of another. I do not trust the storm queen to settle with Utgard or Laufey.”

 

Nodding, Steve gestured to Sverrir. “That’s what I mean. She’s got something planned. Or she’s going to play it by ear, but there’s _something_ _more_ here that we can’t see.”

 

Sighing, Ólafur leaned toward Steve. “If you are so certain, then what would you have us do about it? We have only recently been taken back into Laufey’s good graces.”

 

“His good graces aren’t going to matter if Nedra makes a play we aren’t ready for,” Steve clenched his fists. “I’ll go to the citadel, scope it out and set up a place for myself. When she comes, I’ll reveal myself to her, but I’m going to need help. Just info from the outside and back-up if things go south.”

 

“Wait and see?” Eiríkr asked, running his hand over Dagný's crown. It had grown to something that looked like antlers curving towards each other over her head.

 

“For now.”

 

“We will pack you food and furs, Stígandr,” Brynja said, pouring her herb mixture into a pan. “Perhaps you may even have your orange fire, though I doubt Laufey will allow Nedra to bring a remnant of Surtur to the heart of his kingdom.”

 

“I’ll survive,” Steve told her, smiling. “I have so far.”

 

“Not entirely,” she said, but she smiled back.

 

* * *

 

The citadel maintained its structure, despite severe damage to it. It had probably been the center of affairs back when the Jötunn had the Casket of Ancient Winters, but now it was quiet and empty. The instability of the buildings and the fact that it was strategically unfeasible to defend had left it desolate.

 

Steve kept to the roofs, avoiding the ground so it would be harder to tell he had been there. He memorized the layout and every nook he could use to his advantage.

 

He didn’t doubt that Nedra would want revenge on him, but he felt he could handle whatever was thrown at him. Besides, he had found a way to make himself important to Laufey, he could do the same with Nedra. She would need all the allies she could get in Utgard, especially if it was a long while before she headed back to her mountain. And if she refused him, or attempted to harm him, then he would deal with her as he’d done with Brimer. He would give her a chance to stumble before he made a final judgement. He still did not believe that she would give up so easily, but perhaps he didn't understand her as well as he thought he did. It wouldn't be the first time he misread a woman's agenda.

 

The main tower of the citadel rose in front of him and his pace picked up. He sprinted across the icy stone crenellations, from one rise to the next, until he came upon an opening. Leaping, he grabbed hold of the open window and pulled himself up.

 

The snow had gathered along the edges and he arched his body when he jumped inside to avoid sinking into the drift just beyond the window. The sound of his landing echoed in the open space and he stood still for a moment as the sound faded. He had come upon a room of sorts, with a stone bed and decorative ice that hung like stalactites from the ceiling. There was little else but half formed hunks of ice in the floor. He supposed it had once been furniture before the defeat.

 

Steve left the room and entered a hall where the floor was caving in. He kept to the edges and wandered until he found another opening. From that window, he could see Laufey’s throne and quite a bit of Utgard. Nedra would enjoy the view at least. He turned back to the tower and began to map it as well.

 

* * *

 

Steve had gathered supplies from his family and taken up residence in the citadel, shoring up a smaller, harder-to-reach area from the elements. It was probably just a crack in the wall, made from either war or time, but it was stable and roomy enough for him. He had even been given a bit of dry kindling and something resembling flint. He didn’t think the Jötunn used it for starting fires, but it wouldn't serve him with any other purpose. Short of being both fuel and fire in one, of course. He doubted he would even know enough about magic to use such a thing.

 

Ađalbjörg and Brynja had rounded up more fur for him and he had borrowed leather thread and a bone needle from Hjördís to sew it together to make a sleeping bag. It kept out the winds and the press of the cold. He maintained a very small fire whose light he blocked by sequestering it behind a jagged wall. From outside, there was a minimal glow, but nothing that would give him away.

 

He had taken what furs didn’t go into his sleeping bag and made a cloak out of it that he could cinch up if he needed more movement. It made him feel foolish at first, but the weight on his shoulders and the warmth at his back had more than made up for that. Now, it was nothing to have it swishing behind him. He had also fashioned a cross harness from leather and affixed his shield to it. It wasn’t the best looking, but it did what he needed it to. The cross harness kept his cloak tight to his shoulders.

 

Steve was in the process of climbing down the wall that led to his new home when he heard commotion from the city center. He paused and leaned back, tilting slightly to see what it could be.

 

From the path that led to the mountain, Nedra and a contingent of storm giants came with minimal torches. Nedra was layered in leather and furs. He could see her hunkering down to withstand the winds that buffeted around her. Speeding up, Steve finished his descent.

 

* * *

 

 

It surprised him as much as his family when he came sprinting down from the citadel, his black fox fur cloak fluttering in the air behind him. He had planned to stay hidden, but he also didn’t trust Nedra to destroy her only leverage. Most Jötunn wouldn’t survive the heat, if she chose to unleash more than was already present in the heart of the mountain. Steve, at least, didn’t have a physiology based around remaining at a below freezing temperature. He could survive some heat.

 

Laufey noticed him as soon as the others did and Steve made no effort to hide himself.

 

“I want to be in the group that ensures she destroys the portal to Muspelheim.”

 

“What makes you believe I would send you?”

 

“I’m the one who told you about it. I know she’ll try something.”

 

Laufey granted him his full attention. “Yes, you are the _only_ one who saw Surtur in the flames.”

 

“What?” Steve asked, eyes wide.

 

“None of the children remember seeing a creature of fire. They remember heat and flame, but nothing sentient.”

 

“They were...the heat had...” He didn’t want to imply the children were _unreliable_ after their ordeal, and he snapped his mouth shut.

 

“We will see what Nedra has to say,” Laufey said, his face unreadable. “You belong to her now.”

 

Steve blinked, but backed away as Laufey dismissed him without a word.

 

* * *

 

 

“You found the Midgardian,” Nedra said in greeting, her mammoth shifting beneath her. She seemed well-rested, her eyes clear and bright.

 

“He found me,” Laufey said, taking in the guards behind Nedra. “Four of my men will accompany you to the heart of the mountain.”

 

“What for?” she frowned, the white flame she kept with her dancing atop her crown.

 

“Our deal rests upon the extinguishing of Surtur’s foothold in this world. I assume you had not forgotten?”

 

Laughing, Nedra shook her head. “Of course, I remembered, but it is already done.”

 

Meeting his family’s eyes, Steve let it show on his face that he knew his suspicions were being confirmed.

 

“I will not take your word. Grundroth, Ólafur, Hailstrum, Raze...Stígandr,” he called their names and the Jötunn reported to the front beside him. Steve jumped into Ólafur's hand and was placed on the giant’s shoulder. “Escort them back to your mountain and show them your proof. If anything should befall my men, I will take it as an act of war.”

 

“Nothing will happen to your men, Laufey, because the fire is gone.”

 

“You have two days to reveal your proof.” Laufey turned and headed back to his throne, leaving his four chosen with Nedra.

 

Inhaling sharply, Nedra gazed at them all. “This is entirely unnecessary. But I will do it nonetheless.”

 

“As if you had a choice,” Hailstrum snidely said, stepping forward. “Let’s be done with this.”

 

Nedra grit her teeth, her jaw working, and spurred her mammoth back to her mountain.

 

* * *

 

“Do you enjoy being right, Stígandr?” Ólafur asked as they marched to Nedra’s mountain. It was the first thing the old Jötunn had said to him since they set out.

 

“No, but it’s better than being wrong.”

 

“Not always,” Ólafur disagreed, gazing back at Utgard. “There are many things I wish I had been wrong about.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“I did not wish to leave Utgard, to follow Ađalbjörg. I thought it foolish and young of her to incite rebellion as she did. I said a thousand times it would end in ruin. And it did. I wish, then, that I had been wrong and we had thrived. Our fate would have been different had I been wrong.”

 

“But you were right and if someone had listened to you, then it could have been avoided.”

 

“How was I or anyone to know I was right? I had no proof but my gut and my habitual worry.”

 

“That’s good. Gut instinct has saved my life more times than I can count,” Steve saw the entrance in the distance and guessed it would take another hour of travel to get to the mountain.

 

“But _your_ gut instinct is not proof,” Ólafur said, and Raze narrowed his eyes at them. For the most part, the other three Jötunn had ignored them. Steve met Raze’s eyes and the Jötunn looked away. “You cannot ask desperate people to throw away their freedom for your uneasiness.”

 

Steve said nothing, staring off into the distance. Eiríkr's words about leadership seemed to intertwine with Ólafur's now. Birgir’s words swirled amongst them and Steve felt like he was being taught a lesson. What that lesson was, he wasn’t sure. He sighed.

 

“I was so small for so long,” Steve said, knowing that Brynja and Ađalbjörg had told his story to the others quite a few times. He had added in bits that they didn’t know or fixed parts they had got wrong, but overall he let them tell it. His story didn’t seem so fantastical to him. “I had to make up for the difference. I guess I just never stopped. Then the difference seemed to grow as I did, bigger and badder and harder to match. So I kept pushing, kept fighting, because if I’m not good enough to win the day, why did I sign up at all?”

 

Ólafur seemed to think before he answered, his brow furrowed. “If winning is all that makes you great, you are doomed to fall. No one, not even Ymir, can ensure victory in every battle. No life you save, no world made peaceful, no family found will ever be enough. Victory will haunt you behind and ahead, but never remain in your present. There is more to life than the next battle, the next enemy. If you make nothing of the life you fight for, why fight for it at all?”

 

Steve thought of Peggy and the future they could have had. He thought of kids and a home, of peacetime and a time of rebuilding. He thought of mundane things like bills and birthdays, and time marching on ceaselessly. He thought of Peggy growing old and wrinkled, of grandkids running around their loving home. He thought of weddings and funerals, of graduations and births. He thought of a world where he hadn’t mucked it up and found Jötunheim. He had fought for that and for every person he knew to have that too. And now...he wasn’t sure if any of it had mattered. He thought again of Schmidt and the plane, of the fact that the despot could still be out there somewhere, rebuilding his plan from the ground up. In post-war chaos, it was more than possible.

 

He thought, too, of the Jötunn children in the mountain, of his _family_ that would have died under Brimer’s rule. He thought of everyone he had found since his accidental exile on Jötunheim. If he had stayed, if he had taken out Schmidt without getting transported anywhere...he could have...

 

But that was wrong, too. If he had stayed, he would have had to crash the plane. He didn’t trust Schmidt not to have another plan. The Valkyrie itself was probably a weapon, though that was pure speculation. Would he have survived the crash? He thought of an axe in his head and of Hela. Would she have saved him, then?

 

“I don’t know...” Steve began, his voice soft. “I don’t know how.”

 

“It’s simple, Stígandr,” Ólafur said. “You find something you could not imagine your life without and you cherish it for as long as you can. One day, as with the storms on Jötunheim, it will end. If you live as long as we do, you will say farewell to many things.”

 

“I’m tired of saying goodbye.”

 

“That is a shame. For if you had never said hello, there would be nothing to say goodbye to. It would a lonely life if you did not care enough for goodbye to hurt you.”

 

“I’m lucky, then?” Steve asked, his tone sharp.

 

“To have places and people to mourn? Yes, you are the luckiest Midgardian in existence.”

 

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

 

“That’s because you don’t truly appreciate what you have. You must live every day as if it would be gone tomorrow. Because it will be.”

 

Steve swallowed and gripped Ólafur's shoulder. “Thank you.”

 

Laughing, Ólafur shook his head. “Live a full life, Stígandr. That will be thanks enough for me.”

  

* * *

 

 

The guards at the gate welcomed them warmly, though Steve felt it was probably for Nedra and less for them. He kept a close eye on them, but they turned back to the cold. The gates slammed shut behind them and they were plunged into the dark. Up ahead, another guard came forward with a torch and though it gave off a lot of heat, it wasn’t like the torches before. The ones in the walls were put out.

 

Ólafur smiled at him and he nodded, his worry giving way a bit at the thought that maybe he was wrong.

 

They descended further into the mountain and the heat did not rise. The path they took was winding, but Steve knew it well. He saw the scorch marks on the wall where he had burned the dead storm giants to give the children and himself some time to get away. The path sloped downward and Nedra looked over her shoulder.

 

“Up ahead is where the portal was. I suppose your Midgardian can attest to that.”

 

“It was,” Steve agreed, though the three Jötunn with them only scoffed.

 

“The word of a flea is not enough. Show us the portal, storm queen!” Grundroth demanded and the guards around Nedra bristled. She held up her hand delicately and her guards calmed.

 

“If you would pretend, for the moment, to be worth the air you breathe, I _will_ show you,” Nedra stared down the Jötunn. “You seem to have forgotten that this mountain does not belong to you. I am _Queen_. Soon, I will be _your_ queen. You will show me the respect I deserve.”

 

“You will _not_ be our queen,” Hailstrum argued, glaring at her.

 

“Thankfully, that’s not up to you.”

 

They arrived at the cavern where the portal to Muspelheim had once resided, but there was nothing but a black hole. Steve patted Ólafur's shoulder until the giant helped him down. He walked to the edge of the recess in the floor and gazed down. The stone was scorched, painted black with ash, but the flames had gone cold. Steve swallowed down a bit of disappointment at the sight.

 

“So, Midgardian,” Nedra said, folding her hands in front of her. “Are you _satisfied_ with my proof?”

 

Steve turned, meeting the queen’s eyes and forcing down a thousand things he could have said. Instead, he nodded and moved away from the hole.

 

“I am...my queen.”

 

Smirking down at him, Nedra turned back to the Jötunn and when they reluctantly nodded, she clapped loud and sharp.

 

“Good. Now, are you hungry? I have had much more food lately. Apparently, the absence of Jötunn upon my mountainside has lured the beasts back to their homes,” Nedra moved past the Jötunn and began to lead the way back up. She paused until Steve looked to her. “I should thank you, Stígandr, for removing the blight from my lands. Now, come,” she reached out her hand and Steve swallowed before allowing her to lift him onto her shoulder. “Let us eat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Nedra brought them to a place that Steve had never been, high up in the mountain, beyond even where the Jötunn children were being kept. It was nearly as big as the throne room and lit up by orange flame, though Steve saw it was normal fire. In the middle of the room, a huge wooden table dominated the space, chairs of equal largeness surrounding it. Food covered the table in abundance. Nedra proceeded to the head of the table and her guards posted themselves to either side of her, she gestured for the Jötunn to take their places where they would.

 

She poured herself some mead and pulled a leg of fox from the bounty on the table. She breathed in the scent of the cooked meat before taking a bite. As she chewed, she settled back in her chair.

 

“Your king has languished in the ruins of his people for too long. He deserves an heir and a queen who can give it to him. I _am_ that queen,” she announced, and though Hailstrum, Grundroth, Raze and Ólafur had taken places about the table, they had yet to touch the food. Nedra seemed to notice. “I will be _your_ queen soon. I do not wish any ill will towards any of you. When I birth the heir to Laufey’s throne, I will need the people of Jötunheim to gather behind him. He will be your king in time. Please,” she waved to the food. “Partake of my food and drink.”

 

When they did not move, she sighed and reached up to grasp Steve between two pinching fingers. Steve held tight to her as she lowered him to the table.

 

“It seems they have forgotten how to eat, Midgardian. Go and show them,” Nedra prodded his back, but her nail met his shield. He took a single step forward but did not do as he was told.

 

Steve looked to each of Jötunn in front of him and then back to Nedra.

 

“He’s Hailstrum,” Steve said, pointing to the Jötunn in question. He pointed to the others. “And that’s Grundroth. That’s Raze. Ólafur you might know from your dungeons. I also have a name. It might not be the one I came to this world with, but it’s mine. Either you call me by it, or you show them yourself, _giantess_.”

 

Steve stood where Nedra’s plate would have if she had laid one out. He was food in this equation, but he would tear the storm queen’s throat to shreds if she thought to eat him. He didn’t blink as he stood and stared down Nedra. She chewed what was left in her mouth slowly and swallowed, setting the leg down.

 

“As you will,  _Stígandr_ ,” Nedra leaned close to him until he could see nothing but her. In a whisper, she spoke again. “You will live and die by your name, Stígandr. And I will live to hear the last utterance of it in this world.”

 

“I hope so, since I have no plans to be immortal,” Steve smiled at Nedra and turned his back to her. He grabbed the smallest bit of meat he could, took a bite and raised it high above his head as he chewed.

 

Ólafur cheered and grabbed some food of his own. A moment later, the other three did as well.

 

Nedra resumed eating her fox leg and Steve found a seat on some box he supposed was for herbs. He and Ólafur began to talk like they always did during any meal and he let himself relax. Maybe Ólafur was right.

 

He was relieved to have been proven wrong.

 

* * *

 

Since they were assured of their new queen’s trustworthiness, as far as their king’s bargain with her was concerned, Steve and the others had wanted to leave at once. However, Nedra waylaid them by insisting they spend the night in her kingdom and return to Utgard upon the second of her given days. Despite their denials, they still found themselves escorted to appointed rooms in the mountain. Hailstrum, Grundroth and Raze were all given separate if smaller ones. Ólafur and Steve were given a single one. Steve pulled furs from the bed and made himself a pallet. Ólafur pulled a torch down from a wall outside the room and laid it on the floor near to Steve’s pallet.

 

Smiling up at the old Jötunn, Steve spoke. “You were right. I’m glad I was wrong.”

 

“Ah, we are not yet out of the mountain. There is still time for you to be right.”

 

“I don’t want to be,” Steve asserted, settling into the warmth of his furs. “I want this to end peacefully. Maybe...maybe we can all get what we want without war. Maybe...I’m too used to fighting to know when to stop.”

 

Ólafur laid down, chuckling as the bed creaked beneath him. “It is strange, but freeing to embrace peace, isn’t it?”

 

Steve closed his eyes. “It’s what I fought for, back on Midgard. I guess I never really thought I’d live long enough to enjoy it.”

 

Humming, Ólafur sighed. “It is the trouble of war. It does not train you to live without it. Many cycles had come to pass before we understood that.”

 

* * *

 

 

They headed back to Utgard in what he supposed was early morning, boxed in on all sides by guards holding torches to ward off the cold wind. Steve sat upon Nedra’s shoulder for the journey, tucked beneath her fur hood. She hadn’t said a word to him, but he hadn’t said a word to her either. There was a warmth at her throat that reminded him of Surtur’s fire, but he was sure it was just that he couldn’t feel the wind and Nedra gave off heat of her own. He had tried to verify, but he wasn't quite brave enough to peek down her tunic to do so.

 

Utgard with its spires rose out of the white expanse and Steve joined in the cheers of relief coming from the Jötunn. Laufey and the others stood at the edge of the path, waiting as they approached. Nedra breathed in deeply and let it out slowly.

 

“What are weddings like on Jötunheim?” Steve asked her and she jerked a little at the suddenness of his question.

 

“Do you plan to be married?”

 

“No, but if I’m going to be at your side, I would like to know what to expect.” Just in case there was something he needed to prepare for.

 

“They do not have sacrifices and handfasting where you come from?”

 

Steve shrugged. “I suppose they do, in some places, but not where I come from, no.”

 

“Then you will find out soon enough.”

 

He chose his next words carefully. “You understand I’m your _only_ ally here.”

 

“Is that what they call kingslayers where you come from?”

 

“As you said, you aren’t a king,” Steve shifted so he could see more beyond her fur hood. “But your child might be.”

 

Inhaling sharply, Nedra clenched her fists. “You wouldn’t dare harm a child.”

 

“No, I wouldn’t, but I can’t say the same for the people of Utgard. You threatened their children, their people, even their king. It might suit Laufey to embrace you, but he’s one...giant. Your child will need loyalty and love. The Jötunn, _some_ of them, trust me. If _I_ trust you, so will they. You would do better with my family than alone.”

 

Nedra slowed her mammoth’s speed and he felt her swallow. “You propose to swear loyalty to me?”

 

“I swear loyalty to my family. If you want to join it, then you’ll have my loyalty.”

 

“Family?” Nedra lowered her voice as they neared Laufey. “You would make me family?”

 

“I never hated you, Nedra, only what you did. If you want, that time can pass and we can all move on. If you want, you and I, and my family, can join together. If you want.”

 

Nedra sniffed and he looked up to see tears welling in her eyes. She pursed her lips and blinked many times. “I...I want that very much.”

 

Nodding, Steve smiled. “Good. Welcome to the family.”

 

* * *

 

Laufey set out a feast for them and Steve left Nedra to return to his family. Brynja was the first to yank him up into her hands.

 

“Stígandr! How was that evil mountain?”

 

“Cold,” Steve said, and laughed. “I have something to tell you all.”

 

Setting him back down, Brynja crouched in front of him. The others were set about the area they called home and they paused whatever they were doing to watch him.

 

Steve stood akimbo and took a deep breath. “I offered Nedra the choice of joining our family.”

 

Immediately words of disagreement rose up and mingled together in the space. Eiríkr shot up from his seat and so did Sverrir.

 

“She put my children in baskets of fire! I would not call her family if Ymir _himself_ ordered me to.”

 

“Her and her ilk killed _all_ of my family,” Sverrir patted Fannar’s head. “This boy is all that is left of them.”

 

Steve looked at all their faces, at the pain they held within their eyes, and he sighed. He couldn’t ask them to endure this if they didn’t want to. He couldn’t ask them to follow him because _he_ thought his path was right. He swallowed and looked back up at them.

 

“Nedra will marry Laufey, she will be our queen. If she gets what she wants, she might have a son. That son will be your king,” Steve stepped closer to them and met each of their eyes. “I let her join the family. I offered her a place here.”

 

“Why?” Eiríkr asked, running his hand along Úlfr's head.

 

“If she thinks she’s in danger, she’ll fight everything that moves. Utgard will never find peace,” he sighed. “But if she has someone in her corner, she’ll have nothing to prove.”

 

“You want us to play nice with her?” Sverrir asked and Hjördís snickered. “What is it, witch?”

 

“He’s planning for a future he will never know,” Hjördís chortled, stones clattering from her fingertips to the table below. “He thinks to draw maps to places he has never seen and may never see.”

 

Steve stared up at Hjördís who reached towards him. “What have you seen, Hjördís?”

 

The fact that the old giantess could see things unseen had long since settled in his mind as a possibility. He didn’t quite believe it yet, but he wasn’t going to deny it because of his own doubt. She was blind and yet she knew more than those with perfect eyes did.

 

“A world torn asunder by golden hands. More heads than crowns to be worn upon them. War and death through the roots and the branches. And power... _great_ power in the hands of a Jötunn.”

 

There was silence for a long moment and it hung in the air like a thick cloak. “Is the Jötunn a child of Laufey?” Steve asked.

 

Hjördís cackled. “Yes! Yes!”

 

Nodding, Steve smiled at the others. “See? We have to rally around Nedra, at least in this.”

 

“Because a son of Laufey will wield great power?” Ađalbjörg did not seem as certain, nor did the others.

 

“Nedra’s child, should she have one,” Steve’s smile faltered. “You know something.”

 

Ađalbjörg looked away. “It is not spoken of here.”

 

“What isn’t?”

 

Shaking her head, Ađalbjörg waved her hand. “I will not say.”

 

“But will you help me?”

 

“Always, Stígandr.”

 

“I will never call her my queen,” Eiríkr announced, “But you are family. I will follow you.”

 

Steve swallowed a sharp stab of pain at a memory that resurfaced. _That little guy who was too stupid to run away from a fight...I’m following him_. The others made noises of agreement, but Brynja tapped his shoulder and tilted her head toward the exit. Silently, he followed.

 

She walked out past the doorway and into the streets, leading him past the thoroughfare and far beyond where the Jötunn normally walked. When the sounds of the city grew quiet, she turned into a forgotten courtyard and sat on the first thing that would hold her weight. Steve crossed his arms to hold off the cold, pulling his cloak tighter around him.

 

“If you’re going to tell me I’m making the wrong decision...” he began, but stopped as Brynja held up a hand.

 

“Nedra is mercurial at best. Her honesty is subject to her idea of safety. But if this means I will not have to watch another of my people die...” Brynja made some gesture with her hands and gazed up at the sky. “I will do what I must.”

 

“Thank you,” he said, but Brynja clicked her tongue.

 

“I am not finished,” she ran her fingers over her crown. “Any child she may have by Laufey will not be Laufey’s first. He had another.”

 

“Another child?”

 

“He abandoned it to the elements for it was small and weak,” Brynja informed him, not meeting his eyes. “The last that was seen of it was high atop the citadel.”

 

“You think it could be out there somewhere?”

 

“It would not have survived alone,” she tapped one of her roses and clenched her other hand into a fist. “My grandmother spoke of golden hands. Often Asgard is spoken of as golden.”

 

“You think Asgard had something to do with it...or will?”

 

“Roots and branches,” Brynja whispered to herself. “I fear there is something more to this than a simple union of our kingdoms.”

 

“Do you have visions, too?” Steve had wondered if it was hereditary. He still didn't quite understand it all.

 

“No, but Ymir speaks to us all,” Brynja closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. “Ever since I saw you upon the shore, I knew you were something different. I believed, because I had found you first, that you _belonged_ to me. You and I were bound together. Our fates, somehow, were intertwined.”

 

“You don’t believe that now?”

 

“I still believe...but I wonder now what it is that our fates are. What are we destined to be?”

 

Steve had no insight to give her. He had only ever felt destined to fight for his country and now, so far from home, he had struggled to find his purpose. He took each day as it came, each struggle as it formed, each opportunity as it appeared. He didn’t feel like he was chasing anything anymore. Instead, he was learning to live.

 

“Ymir...” Steve began, looking out into the starry sky. “He will show us. He will guide us.”

 

“You believe in him?” Brynja’s eyes were wide and her voice was bright.

 

“When in Rome,” Steve muttered, waving his hand through the air when Brynja frowned. “Do as they do.”

 

“Perhaps Ymir can speak through you,” Brynja stood. “Perhaps he has plans for us still.”

 

Steve smiled and looked to the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

The wedding of Nedra and Laufey was quick and without much fanfare.

 

The feast that followed was much more lively. There was mammoth and fox and elk, and mead overflowing. Steve drank until he couldn’t stand anymore and ate until he felt as he if were sated for another cycle at least.

 

They sacrificed a wolf and a fox, the blood mingled together in a stone bowl and used to paint the faces of the two who were wed. The cloth that bound their hands was drenched in it and tied to Laufey’s throne. The feasts continued for days on end. Each night, Nedra stayed with Laufey.

 

“If we are lucky, there will soon be the cries of a baby echoing through these ancient halls,” Ólafur said jovially, raising a horn of mead high in the air. Many cheers greeted his words.

 

Steve sat, half-asleep, against the fin-like protrusion on Þórvaldr's back. The Jötunn had passed out hours ago and lay face-down on a bench.

 

“Our glory would be unmatched if _these ancient halls_ were filled once more with living winter,” Brynja said, biting into some heavily spiced meat. Steve had no desire to eat another thing.

 

Sverrir slammed his fist on the table and Steve jerked a little against Þórvaldr's back as the giant snorted and turned his head the other direction. “We should steal into Odin’s vault and reclaim our birthright.”

 

Ragnheiđr raised his horn to that and gulped down as much as he could at once. The excess ran down his chin. The Casket of Ancient Winters was something Steve had been interested in as well, until the hopes of him leaving this place had died. The object of great power that the Jötunn used to possess was in the hands of their enemy, the Asgardians. Steve thought briefly about the prophecy that Hjördís had said, but he was far too comfortable to give it real consideration.

 

“How can we?” Steve asked, slipping a little further into his cocoon of furs. “We can’t leave Jötunheim.”

 

“Or can we?” Ađalbjörg asked, sipping her own mead. “If that storm...If _our queen_ can communicate with Surtur himself...there must be a way.”

 

Steve, in his sleepy haze, couldn’t bring himself to jump into action. The alcohol had no effect on him, but there was a magic in a gathering like this. He felt more at home here than he ever had. He blinked slowly.

 

“How will we find it?”

 

“We must ask the one who did it first. Nedra would know.”

 

“I’ll ask her...” Steve muttered, his eyes closing more fully. “When the honeymoon’s over.”

 

When the feasts began to slow and he was able to pull himself from his comfort, Steve went back to the citadel to wait.

 


	15. Sacred Relics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last of the Jötunheim chapters, on to the finale of this installment and the promise of the sequel!
> 
> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**Approximately 2 Jötunn cycles ago on Jötunheim**

 

Steve still spoke to Bor, when he found himself in need of guidance.

 

The figure formed from snow did not tell him things in clear cut ways, but it connected with him nonetheless. He didn’t know who the man might be, if he wasn’t a figment of Steve’s imagination, but he appeared kingly.

 

Atop the citadel where Brynja had said the small child of Laufey had been abandoned, Steve sat and communed with Bor. Something about the small and weak child struck a chord with Steve who was reminded of his own former self. He hoped the child had survived the elements, or had been found by someone who would love it. Maybe the child was a late bloomer. In any case, Steve knew first hand that size did not equal survival, even on Jötunheim.

 

Bor hovered in the air before him and Steve tucked his cloak around himself.

 

“Brynja fears there’s something coming. I don’t want to, but I...I have misgivings of my own.” Bor said nothing, though he watched Steve closely. “Hjördís said...more heads than crowns to be worn upon them. What does that mean?”

 

Bor said something like ‘air’ but Steve shook his head. Then it hit him.

 

“You think the other child will come back?” Silence. “Whose heir?”

 

Bor turned to where Utgard became a cliff into almost perfect darkness, then his head tilted upward. Steve did the same and took in the multitude of stars.

 

“ _Yggdrasil will rain down sons like falling leaves_.”

 

Steve frowned up at the stars and then turned to Bor. The figure was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

The citadel wasn’t the most homey of places, even after Nedra took up residence there. She brought a couple giantesses from the mountain to attend to her and a small contingent of guards. They set up a fire pit in the most intact room in the citadel and grouped together there. The fire was orange but not magical.

 

Steve had put off asking after the portal to Muspelheim as Nedra settled, mostly for the fact that he had _just_ gotten her to trust him.  Jumping into an interrogation of her connection to Surtur would only make her think he was befriending her for leverage against her. He saw it coming from a mile away. So he kept his silence and played the part of the novelty.

 

The storm giants were leery of him, as he supposed they had the right to be, but he tried to give off the air of peace. It wasn’t exactly false, but it wasn’t exactly true, either. The first sign of violence towards the Jötunn and he wouldn’t hesitate to eradicate them. He hid that fact behind his smile. He had been told a thousand times that he had a winning smile. It’s probably part of the reason why his cowl had only covered the top of his head.  He didn’t need his brain to knockout Hitler over two hundred times.

 

But here, in Jötunheim, his smile was something pretty in an ugly world and not worth the pull of his muscles. His brain, unseen, was worth more than a warm fire.

 

He wasn’t used to playing the espionage game, since wearing his country’s flag and marching in with the Commandos had never given him the comfort of anonymity. Jötunheim didn’t give him a choice. Besides, he had managed to convince Ađalbjörg and Laufey to trust him. Nedra would be another obstacle, another battle without bloodshed. He was a good soldier...battle was in his blood.

 

Nedra liked to pace around the citadel, her furs piled up to keep her warm, and a torch to ward off the chill. When he had nothing better to do or when he thought he could shadow her, Steve would run along the top of the stone walls like a wraith. For days and nights, if those existed on Jötunheim, he would follow her. She never noticed him, even when she sent some strange white figure darting through the space around her. Apparently, he couldn’t be seen.

 

So, after he felt he knew her routine, guard rotation, and the distance of the strange white figure enough to catch her alone, he revealed himself.

 

Landing near-silently in front of the storm queen, Steve held up his hands. “It’s me.”

 

Nedra gasped, one of her hands thrusting the torch in his direction while the other cupped her stomach. His gaze darted down at the sight before refocusing on her own.

 

“Are you trying to frighten me?” Nedra asked and he shook his head.

 

“No, I just wanted to talk,” Steve came closer and she raised the torch to allow him to. “I have some questions.”

 

Pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes, Nedra’s free hand moved up to her throat. “What sort of questions?”

 

“I think you know. Surtur, Muspelheim, that portal. It was too easy.”

 

Blinking, Nedra looked him up and down. “Did Laufey send you?”

 

“I don’t belong to him anymore, I belong to you.”

 

“And you think I do not know where your _true_ loyalty lies?”

 

His jaw working, Steve pressed on. “My loyalty lies with my family. So, unless you’ve decided to leave it, that includes you.”

 

The wind howled through the broken walls of the citadel and the flames of Nedra’s torch bowed to it. He heard her sigh.

 

“What is it you want to know?”

 

“How did you open up that portal in the first place?”

 

Sighing, she shook her head. “I did not open the portal. There was a strange occurrence of flames in the mountain. Brimer had it investigated and found the beginnings of the portal already formed. We merely stabilized it.”

 

“But if you knew Surtur was dangerous, why help him get a foothold at your doorstep?”

 

“The enemy you cannot see is always smaller than the one you can,” she looked towards the center of the city. “Laufey was on the verge of war with us. Brimer thought it wise to gather allies. The portal seemed like providence. A last resort if we could not hold off the Jötunn.”

 

“And Hela?”

 

“Flames burn, Stígandr,” Nedra said, her fingers hovering over her face. “And death always follows war.”

 

Steve crossed his arms as he mulled it over. If Nedra was telling the truth, and he didn’t doubt her, then their odds of making their own portal to Asgard was out of the question. They were still stuck, as they had been for centuries. His family would be disappointed. His own disappointment was unimportant.

 

“Did you really destroy the portal?” he asked, running his hand through his hair, icicles had formed in the long strands.

 

Nedra swallowed and looked around again. “You must swear your silence.”

 

Steve drew in a slow, deep breath and let it out. “I swear.” No magic greeted his words, but his throat tightened at the mere thought.

 

Nedra reached up to her neck and drew a necklace up from under her many layers of furs. It glowed orange and bright. “A remnant of the portal. I could not destroy it entirely, so I captured the anchor. You must not tell a soul.”

 

“Do you plan to use it against the Jötunn?”

 

“In self-defense only,” she tucked the amulet back beneath her furs. “I swear to you I did not come to harm Laufey or his people. I have what I came for.”

 

Her hand curved once more around her stomach and Steve decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “So you’re pregnant?”

 

“I will not know for certain until a sorceress examines me. But I believe I am.”

 

“Congratulations.”

 

“Thank you, Stígandr,” the ghost-like figure was returning and he could hear the guards marching. Steve took a step back into the shadows.

 

“If you need anything, I’ll be listening.”

 

Nedra nodded to him and turned away, taking the warm light with her.

 

* * *

 

 

Nedra chose to return to the mountain after her pregnancy was made official by a Jötunn sorceress. Laufey, his gaze turned to the affairs of his people, had not stopped her.

 

Steve, by virtue of _belonging_ to Nedra, was required to go to the mountain with her.

 

“I don’t want you to go,” Brynja said to him as he wrapped his meager belongings in a bit of fur and tied it closed with a strip of leather. They were standing at the base of the citadel.

 

“Come with me,” he offered, pulling the leather tight. He hoisted it up onto his back and tied it securely. His shield lay on the ground in front of him.

 

“I will not return to that mountain, not even for you.”

 

“I _have_ to go,” Steve said, turning to Brynja. She was crouched so she didn’t tower above him. He used her bent knee to leap up to her neck. It was awkward, considering how small he was in comparison, but he hugged her as he would a tree. “It’s just until the child’s born, then I’ll be back.”

 

“That is what you say...but if we are fated, brother and sister, why are we so often torn apart?”

 

Steve made his way back down to the ground and went to retrieve his shield. As he reached for it, Brynja yanked it out of reach. She spun it on her fingertip as she used to do so long ago. Her eyes were watery. Steve sighed.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, crossing his arms. “But I had a brother - a friend that was like a brother - back on Midgard.”

 

“Bucky,” Brynja said softly.

 

“Yeah,” he swallowed. “And the world tore us apart so many times. Yet we always found one another. Even...even on Jötunheim, I found him. Hela told me that he’s alive. And even if I never make it back, I’m happy I know. I’m happy he’s alive.”

 

“You want me to be happy you are alive somewhere else?” There was a weight to her words that made it clear she was not speaking about him accompanying Nedra to her mountain.

 

“No, but Ólafur said something that stuck with me. He said I would say farewell to many things, if I lived long enough,” Steve stepped forward until he could lay his bare hand on Brynja’s leg. Her skin burned him, but he just grit his teeth against it. “But this isn’t farewell, not for good. I’ll be back in Utgard, back with you, back with the family, before you know it.”

 

“And if my grandmother’s words become true?”

 

“Then I’ll be back sooner rather than later.”

 

Smiling, Brynja pulled his hand from her skin and placed his shield on his arm. He couldn’t grip it until the feeling came back but he curled his arm to his chest.

 

“Farewell, brother,” Brynja whispered, her words half lost to the wind. “May Ymir smile upon you.”

 

“And on you, sister,” Steve slid his hand into his glove, rolled his shoulders, and set off towards the gates.

 

* * *

 

 

Nedra sighed for what left like the thousandth time since they had set out and Steve poked her in the neck with his shield arm.

 

“What is it?”

 

The storm queen shook her head and pressed her lips together. Steve settled against her neck and waited. He had travelled from Utgard to the mountain and back enough times that it felt like second nature. Since, as was the norm for the past few times, he didn’t even have to worry about walking, he had nothing better to do than notice the little things.

 

Nedra shook her head once more. “It is nothing.”

 

“Uh huh,” Steve ran his tongue over his teeth. “So what is it?”

 

“That Jötunn sorceress said something strange to me,” Nedra shifted in her seat. The mammoth made a noise in its throat. “She said there would be confusion in this birth and fear. And she said I would look into a mirror as long as I live.”

 

Cutting back his initial thought of her own vanity, Steve gave it some thought. He wondered if this prediction had anything to do with Hjördís’ or Bor’s. “All births are scary. I’m sure this one will be, too. That doesn’t mean it’ll be bad.”

 

“No, she did not mention death, only fear,” Nedra lowered her voice as much as she could. “What if I birth monsters as others have in the tales?”

 

Steve knew a bit about mythology, but he had been more focused on Red Skull and Hydra to spend his time poring over books about fictional worlds and their inhabitants. He knew of monsters and he knew of heroes, but the world wasn’t a fable.

 

“Raise the child with love and you won’t have to fear monsters.”

 

“You make it sound so easy, but it is not. Monsters are _real_ here. They are not figments or titles. Beasts can be made of any union.”

 

“Then we’ll deal with it _if_ it comes to that,” Steve met Nedra’s gaze as she looked at him from the corner of her eye. “But it won’t.”

 

* * *

 

 

Steve wasn’t given his own room in the mountain, but rather he was given a sort of nest that hung from the ceiling in Nedra’s room. _Heat rises_ , Nedra had said and set him inside of it. It was decked out in fur and the layer against the weaving was leather. Steve thanked her for it and set about making a rope ladder to climb up to it.

 

The denizens of the mountain didn’t like him, but neither had the majority of the Jötunn. He was used to being set apart. He remained close to the one who wanted him there and as her belly grew, Nedra clung to him more and more.

 

He hadn’t actually witnessed a live birth, but he supposed he would have no choice now. The storm queen wouldn’t part with him.

 

“Family,” Nedra told him as she paced through the halls. Her body ached terribly and walking seemed to help. “I have never enjoyed family.”

 

“You had a father,” Steve said, nodding to a guard that passed by. He got a sneer in return.

 

“And a mother. Neither one cared for me. They both loved Brimer more.”

 

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

 

“Then you would be wrong.”

 

“Tell me about them,” Steve said, his voice pitched soft and open.

 

Nedra breathed out a harsh exhale and swiped her hand through the air before cupping her belly. “I do not wish to speak of them.”

 

“Okay,” He could feel her pulse jumping in her throat. “I think we should head back. You need to rest.”

 

Nedra sighed but turned around and Steve patted her neck in reassurance.

 

* * *

 

 

When Nedra slept, Steve would roam the mountain.

 

There was little else for him to do and since none of his family were willing to reenter the mountain, that left him completely alone. He didn’t blame them, seeing as they had experienced more horror than he had, even if he had died here, and lost much more than he had. Bad memories must have lived in every inch of this place. He avoided the throne room, but the rest he would explore.

 

The mountain was expansive, with an armory and a marketplace, a shrine to some god he didn’t know, and homes carved out of solid rock. There were springs that rose up in the center of it all, with glow-weed illuminating everything from below, and the water was both drank from and carried away in buckets. Clothing was being dyed and cut in one part of the mountain, while weapons were being forged in another. Food was being cooked over open fires and Steve had given in more than once to the temptation for warm, fresh food. The storm giants appreciated his appetite, even if they still looked at him as an enemy - which he would not argue as he had killed their king. There were mills that made flour out of some of the strange plants and bread was baked. Rare, and often hard to find, were little pies made out of moonberry with some delectable sauce drizzled on top.

 

When he had asked about it, he had been told it was moss from the trees by the river, boiled and mixed with many other things. The fact that they cooked a poisonous plant to drizzle over their pastries made Steve laugh. It was more like Midgard than he could say.

 

He never learned any of the storm giants’ names because they would not offer them up and he remembered his own dealings with name-giving. He nodded to them as he passed them by and didn’t ask anymore.

 

Steve started to settle in the mountain but he knew comfort was fleeting.

 

* * *

 

 

**Approximately 1 Jötunn cycle ago on Jötunheim**

 

Steve had been enjoying a slice of meat pie down in the marketplace when a guard had come running from the higher parts of the mountain and shouted his name. Like a rocket, Steve took off sprinting past the guard and up the winding paths to Nedra’s quarters. Screams echoed out through the halls and Steve’s heart leapt in his chest.

 

There were two midwives around Nedra’s bedside already and they were wiping her brow, piling up fresh cloth and giving her water. Steve swallowed as he came into view.

 

“Stígandr!” Nedra called out to him and he used the nearest midwife’s apron to climb up to the bed and into the storm queen’s shaking hand. “They come too early!”

 

“They?” he asked and the midwives looked to one another.

 

“There are two,” one of them said and turned away to attend to Nedra.

 

Steve rocked a little as it sunk in. _More heads than crowns to be worn upon them. Looking into a mirror_. He didn’t voice his revelations, because he wasn’t stupid enough to add stress to a situation like this, but he turned to the midwives.

 

“What can I do?”

 

“Keep her calm and pray.”

 

* * *

 

Helblindi was the first to arrive into the world. He had no eyes to speak of, but his cries were piercing and he was quite small. Steve, in awe, had followed the midwives as they began to clean the little blue child. The newborn screamed and screamed until Steve placed his gauntlet hand on the child’s cheek. The silence that followed spooked them all.  It was broken by a gurgle and Nedra’s soft sob.

 

She named him as tears rolled down her cheeks.

 

Steve remained with Helblindi as the next child took its time. He stood beside the wriggling baby and ran his hand down the boy’s cheek. Soft scarring was already visible on Helblindi’s face, which answered a question Steve hadn’t thought to ask. There was something in the air...something heavy and powerful, and he clenched his fist against it. He still didn’t like to give magic so much credit, even after all he’d seen, but he couldn’t deny its presence.

 

He sent up prayers to Ymir and his own Midgardian god for the health and safety of both children.

 

Býleistr, the second son, came as a blizzard raged outside and thunder shook the mountain. His cries were not as loud as his brother’s, but he had his eyes and every other body part. Nedra cradled him close to her chest and wept over him. He was much bigger than Helblindi and potentially the heir that Laufey would have wanted.

 

Steve sighed as Helblindi began to whine and turned to Nedra. “With love,” he reminded her and she nodded, reaching out for her other son.

 

* * *

 

They headed back to Utgard as soon as both children could handle such a journey. A modified howdah was built to stave off the cold from Nedra, but the children were placed in shallow woven baskets where the wind could touch their skin. Steve stood guard between the twins, staring off into the distance, waiting for a glimpse of his family. After Steve had asked to be their godfather, and had finished explaining what that was, Nedra had gladly declared him to be so. There was a pride in it, though he doubted he would ever earn it.

 

Laufey was standing at the forefront once more as they approached Utgard, but this time he didn’t stop them. With a wave, he gave them permission to continue further into Utgard. Steve craned his neck out of the howdah, looking for his family among the many faces gathered. He was nearly to the center of Utgard before he saw them.

 

Brynja was at the head, pressed up on her tiptoes to see over the shoulder of a Jötunn in front of her. She waved at him vigorously, but he couldn’t hear her words over the joyous sounds of the others. She was happy, he could tell that much.

 

Nedra’s mammoth didn’t stop for his reunion and he waved as they moved out of sight.

 

The throne room was colder than he remembered and he hopped down to the ground before Nedra, standing close by as she lowered Helblindi in his basket first. A shroud had been draped over the top. Helblindi began to cry, so Steve reached into the basket and took hold of the baby’s finger. Helblindi hushed almost immediately.

 

Nedra brought down Býleistr in his uncovered basket and carried them both towards Laufey. Steve hovered on the edge of Helblindi’s basket, clinging to the child’s finger.

 

“Laufey, I bring you your sons,” Nedra set the baskets down and removed Býleistr first. He cooed and gurgled but did not cry. “This is Býleistr.”

 

Laufey snatched up his son and ran his hand over the boy’s bare head. A layer of ice followed his hand and Býleistr giggled. The Jötunn king stared down at his son and his lips curved upward.

 

“Good, he is strong,” He held onto the child for a moment longer before passing him back to Nedra. His eyes glanced to where Steve was perched. “And that one?”

 

Nedra hesitated before lifting the shroud and removing Helblindi. “This is...Helblindi.”

 

Laufey looked at the boy who wriggled and reached out. Something dark passed over the Jötunn king’s face and he turned his back. “The citadel has been reinforced and is well-stocked.”

 

Swallowing, Nedra pulled Helblindi close. “Thank you, Laufey.”

 

With a wave, they were dismissed.

 

* * *

 

 

“Twins?” Ađalbjörg was running her long nail down Steve’s back. “This is troubling.”

 

Steve glanced up at her, then looked to the rest of his family. “Why? Laufey clearly chose Býleistr.”

 

“They have equal claim, as they were born on the same day.”

 

“Helblindi was born first.”

 

“See? Troubling.”

 

“I don’t think Helblindi will want the throne,” Steve said, though he knew he was doing exactly what Hjördís had said. _Planning for a future he will never know_.

 

“That is something you cannot know,” Ađalbjörg, who was looking at him through narrowed eyes, retracted her hand. “Something is coming, I can feel it.”

 

“I know,” Steve agreed, running his hand through his long hair. His beard was braided at his chin. “I can feel it, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

Steve was performing his bonds tour routine solo for the giggling twins, his singing voice lacking after so long in the cold, when Ragnheiđr came running into the nursery.

 

“Someone’s here!” he shouted and the babies began to cry. Steve caught their attention again with his dancing, but turned to Ragnheiđr.

 

“What do you mean? Who?”

 

“Some Asgardian swearing he’ll help us get the Casket back.”

 

The air left Steve suddenly and he stumbled. The fact that they had had no visitors from other worlds, Surtur and Hela excluded because they never set foot in Jötunheim, shook him to the core. Hjördís and Laufey had been so sure it was impossible. Without outside help, they would never be able to leave Jötunheim. Now there was a chance.

 

 _Bucky_.

 

“Watch them,” Steve ordered breathlessly, racing out of the citadel to the sounds of the twins crying.

 

* * *

 

 

The stranger was still there when Steve joined the group in the throne room. It was obvious the conversation between Laufey and the dark-haired Asgardian had been ongoing for a while. Steve remained in the shadows, pacing further inside the throne room until he could see the Asgardian’s pale face that housed mischievous green eyes and a knowing smirk. Decked out in black, green and gold, the Asgardian looked quite comfortable in the frozen world he had found himself in.

 

“What say you, Laufey?” the Asgardian asked and Laufey leaned forward.

 

“I will need more than your word,” Laufey responded and the Asgardian clicked his tongue.

 

“You are not exactly in the position to make demands.”

 

Laufey stared at the Asgardian with narrowed eyes. “I know of you, Loki, son of Odin. You make mockery of us and call it a gift.”

 

“This is a one-time offer, Laufey. Passage to and from the vaults of my father, unseen by Heimdall. I am sure something like it will never come again.”

 

“What’s the catch?” Steve asked suddenly and Loki looked his way. For a moment, there was an unguarded fear and curiosity on the prince’s face, then it was gone.

 

“You have a Midgardian,” Loki stated plainly. It was clear that it confused him.

 

“Yes,” Laufey said slowly and Loki’s gaze snapped back to the king.

 

“Yes to all?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A flickering smile appeared on Loki’s face and he bowed his head. “Until the coronation then.”

 

“Be warned, son of Odin, if you betray my people...our revenge will be swift.”

 

“Of course,” Loki’s eyes roamed over the throne room and alighted on Steve for a moment. He stared at the Asgardian without blinking and was greeted with an arrogant smirk. Loki stepped out of the throne room and in the time it took for Steve to follow, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t go to his family right away to begin making plans, instead he went back to the citadel. Ragnheiđr had managed to quiet Býleistr, but Helblindi was wailing. Steve hurried back to the baby’s side and wrapped his hand around one outstretched finger. Softly, and with many hiccups, the baby fell asleep.

 

“What did they want?” Ragnheiđr asked and Steve sighed.

 

“It was Prince Loki of Asgard...he offered passage to Odin’s vaults unseen.”

 

Blinking, Ragnheiđr lowered Býleistr into his crib. “Do you believe him?”

 

“Truthfully?” Steve pulled himself up so he could sit beside Helblindi. “After this long, I can’t help feeling like any way out is a trap.” Scoffing at himself, he ran his free hand over his eyes. “I would jumped at this chance a few cycles ago.”

 

“Perhaps you were not ready _a few cycles ago_. Ymir blessed us many times recently. Maybe this is the age of our return.”

 

He let himself imagine it. The broken and bitter kingdom of Laufey, strong and vibrant once more. His citadel a triumph of construction wrapped in thick layers of ice, blue flames lighting up the streets and the pathways. Helblindi or Býleistr sitting on the throne, their crown a glorious thing made of paper thin ice and that green material all other Jötunn wore. They would grow strong and huge in a world their ancestors would have known. And Brynja, whose heart beat for the reclamation of her people’s power, would finally have her dream realized. If Ymir existed and was giving them a chance to do all that, he would look past his gut feeling and do it.

 

 _You cannot ask desperate people to throw away their freedom for your uneasiness_ , Ólafur had said. Now fate was making sure he understood. This chance, even if it was a trap, was too good to pass up. They had no choice but to give it a chance. The future of their people was worth at least that much.

 

“Maybe it is,” Steve said, ignoring the fear in him that Hjördís’ prophecies were slowly coming true. “I’m going to ask Laufey to be on the team that goes. If it’s a trap, I’m expendable.”

 

“You are not expendable. You are one of us,” Ragnheiđr pointed to the grip that Helblindi had on his hand in his sleep. The oldest of the twins was the smallest, barely bigger than Steve was before the serum. Hjördís had said he would not grow much bigger than that. Small and weak, like Laufey’s firstborn. “Helblindi is attached to you. He knows his own kind when he sees it.”

 

Smiling down at the baby, Steve made a decision. “I’m going to vault. I have to believe there’s a chance for a better life. For _all_ of my family.”

 

“If Laufey allows, I will go with you.”

 

Steve nodded to Ragnheiđr. “Thank you.”

 

“It is my future, too, Stígandr. I would have no right to rejoice in it if I stood by and did nothing.”

 

* * *

 

 

What little he knew of Asgard came from the insults spat by the Jötunn against them, but if he was going to infiltrate a secret place of theirs, he had to know more.

 

“You are too interested in them, Stígandr,” Sverrir said as they gathered together to share a meal. He didn’t see them as often since Nedra demanded he stay as much as he could to calm Helblindi. He made a point to share at least one meal with his family a day.

 

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle,” Steve quoted and the Jötunn looked at him in confusion. “From Midgard.”

 

When only more confusion greeted him, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter where it comes from. What matters is that the more I know about the Asgardians, the better I can fight them. If I’m in the dark, they have an advantage.”

 

“What do you wish to know?” Ađalbjörg asked and Ólafur leaned forward.

 

“Loki’s a prince, a _son of Odin_ , so that makes Odin the king. If I remember my mythology right, there’s Thor and...uh, Balder,” a memory resurfaced in his mind and Steve looked down at his clothing. “Well, maybe not Balder. Uh, who else?”

 

“Frigga, his queen. Bor was his father,” Ólafur began and Steve blinked.

 

“Bor?” He thought of the figure made of snow with a ram’s head helm. “Did you know him?”

 

“Yes, I fought his army long before Laufey became king. Why?”

 

“What did he wear? His helmet, what was it?”

 

“A ram’s head. Stígandr, why do you...?”

 

“It’s nothing,” he said, waving his hand through the air. “I’d forgotten that detail.”

 

“Oh,” Ólafur laughed. “You know these stories as fables. I understand.”

 

“So, do they have magic? What kind of weapons do they use?”

 

As his family told him all they knew, Steve tried to reconcile the fact that he had been talking to Loki’s grandfather for many cycles. How had the old king been trapped here? Was it his spirit that spoke to him or something else? The golden city in the clouds with more power than was reasonable began to form in his mind’s eye. He saw the mammoth structures and the flowing waters and the greenery as if in a dream. It was probably all wrong, but he would at least have a frame to place the truth in when he saw it. He didn’t feel like he was going to be able to walk into Asgard and undo centuries of injustice, but he at least felt certain he would be able to combat them. Swords and shields was in his wheelhouse now. He would finally be able to put it to good use.

 

If Laufey agreed to let him go.

 

* * *

 

 

“You always seek to put yourself in the middle of all my peoples’ affairs. Why is that?” Laufey asked him when Steve had finally managed to get an audience with the king.

 

“If I can help, I’m going to try,” Steve answered, crossing his arms. “And I feel like I need to be there.”

 

“In Asgard? That is fitting as you so wished to leave Jötunheim,” Laufey turned away from him, but Steve stepped closer.

 

“That was before I made a home here. I have a family. I saw your sons being born. I hope I helped bring peace to your people. Now, if you’ll let me, I’ll bring your source power back.”

 

“And this is purely altruistic, hmm?”

 

Pacing a little, Steve shook his head. “No, of course it’s not. But my first priority isn’t getting back to Midgard. My first priority is to safeguard Jötunheim,” he turned back to the king. “Loki, by your own account, is untrustworthy. If this is a trap, it’ll mean the death of your people. I’m _not_ your people.”

 

“You would go alone?” Breathing a laugh, Laufey sneered. “I will not place this task in your hands alone.”

 

“Then don’t. Just let me be there,” Steve pleaded, his hands clenched into fists.

 

Considering him for a moment, Laufey nodded. “As you wish, Stígandr, but you will bring at least three of your _family_ as insurance that you will not sabotage this.”

 

Swallowing, Steve sighed. “Okay. Thank you.”

 

“If it is a trap, Stígandr, there will be no need for gratitude.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Three of us?” Eiríkr asked, tossing a painted stone to Úlfr. The young Jötunn carried it over to Fannar who was assembling a series of them like dominoes. Steve had shown them how.

 

“As insurance that I won’t fail the mission on purpose.”

 

“He thinks you would ruin your only chance to reach Midgard?” Brynja asked and her dark smile was painful to look at. “He does not know you well at all.”

 

Steve thought of Bucky, hopefully still alive out there and agreed. Laufey misunderstood him if he thought that hurting the Jötunn would aid Steve in any way.

 

“So who’s coming with me?”

 

“You know I will, brother,” Brynja told him, nodding.

 

Ragnheiđr gulped down some mead before he answered. “You know already that I am with you.”

 

“That’s two,” Þórvaldr announced, looking around the room. For a moment, no one spoke up.

 

“I would go,” Eiríkr began and Dagný held on tight to him. “But if it’s a trap and Asgard brings the fight to us...I have to protect my children.”

 

“I understand,” Steve said, smiling at Eiríkr.

 

“I am far too old for sneaking around. It was bad enough in that mountain. Besides, if I should die, I would rather it be here than in their golden city.” Ólafur put forth and Steve nodded to him as well.

 

“I will go,” Sverrir declared, rising to standing. “I want to see what is so good about Asgard.”

 

“Then I’m going, too!” Fannar shouted, jumping up from where he had been delicately placing dominoes. They all fell down.

 

“No, you are all that’s left of our family,” Sverrir pressed on Fannar’s shoulder, but the young Jötunn only raised his chin.

 

“Our family is all around us, uncle. If you go, I go.”

 

Sverrir looked to Steve and they shared a long look. Steve pressed his lips together and raised his shoulders a little. It was not up to him.

 

“Fine, but you stay behind me and close to the exit. Do not fight unless you must.”

 

Smiling bright and wide, Fannar gripped his uncle’s hand. “Yes, uncle.”

 

* * *

 

 

Laufey warned Steve and his team that the coronation would be coming up soon and that they should remain prepared.

 

Steve decided he couldn’t go until he made his rounds. He made sure Eiríkr knew that Nedra would need help with her boys and that Helblindi liked to hear people sing and dance. He showed the Jötunn and his three children how to get to and from the citadel via the new path that Laufey had reinforced, and told them about a secret path that led out to the wastelands beyond. _For emergencies_ , he told them and Eiríkr had nodded solemnly.

 

He had made a bracelet out of his old sleeping bag for Ađalbjörg and made a trip to Nedra’s lands to gather up herbs and glow-weed for Hjördís. He painted a wolf skull in glow-weed and attached it to leather so it formed a helm for Helblindi and weaved together painted stones for Býleistr with stars and stripes on them, and sew it to a strip of leather for a belt. He painted a storm giant shield in his old colors and left that for both of them. For Eiríkr and his kids, he wrote down all he could remember of every fairytale he’d ever heard and every interesting bit of Midgard history he knew. He sketched the cityscapes and people’s faces on leather canvas, and drew the vehicles and machinery. He left a mark of himself on an ageless world and hoped he would see it again.

 

Brynja smiled at him as he handed her his compass.

 

“I thought you said this didn’t work,” she said to him, flicking it open and shut. It made a bit of a whining sound as it moved, but the hinges weren’t yet rusted. He had kept it as dry and warm as he could.

 

“It doesn’t, not here. But it worked on Midgard,” Steve tried not to think of how that applied to who he used to be when he had received the compass for the first time. “If something happens...”

 

“Do not think that way,” Brynja kneeled in front of him. “We must head into this with hope. Ymir will yank it all away if we doubt him.”

 

Steve swallowed. “I know. But just in case something does happen.,” he forced a smile. “You know how to read it, right?”

 

“You showed me, yes.”

 

“Okay. If something ever happens and you find yourself on Midgard without me,” Steve smiled because he couldn’t fathom that happening, but he didn’t want to tell her that he doubted he would be coming back. That same magic that had called him to her and to all of these Jötunn was churning inside of him now. This was the end of his time here, which meant Hela was going to take him back. “Look for the stars and stripes, look for America.”

 

“That place where you were once Captain?”

 

Laughing, Steve nodded. “Same place. Find New York, if it’s still there. There’s a place called Brooklyn. It’s where I’m from. It’s my Utgard.”

 

“What do you want me to do there?” her voice was rough and he bit back the tears rising in his eyes.

 

“If you can, take my shield. If I can’t make it home, maybe a part of me can.”

 

Sighing and wiping at her eyes, Brynja pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “It will be done Stígandr.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Less than a full Jötunn cycle ago on Jötunheim**

 

The day arrived and Steve had removed his cloak for a greater range of movement. He painted his forehead and right under his eyes with glow-weed, sort of like his old cowl. The others had rituals of their own, but eating wasn’t one of them. Sverrir had said that if they stayed hungry just before they went, they would have that much more drive to return. A victory meal was always something to look forward to.

 

Loki did not appear again as Steve had assumed he might. Instead, the pathway opened in a cave not far from Utgard. Ragnheiđr went first and Steve followed, Brynja right behind him and Sverrir and Fannar bringing up the rear.

 

By the time Steve had oriented to the strange new place he was in, with its warmth and golden glow, Ragnheiđr was already dispatching a guard dressed in more gold. Steve hurried forward and joined the fight as a few more guards came to investigate the commotion. He felled a couple on his own, since they were his size and much easier to fight. They cried out as the rest of the group came and one guard tried to run. Steve threw his shield as hard as he could and it knocked the guard to the ground, his helmet crushed in the back. As his shield ricocheted, Steve took in the sudden quiet.

 

All the guards were down.

 

“Before you say it was too easy, Stígandr,” Sverrir said, making sure Fannar was behind him. “I would remind you we have not found the Casket yet.”

 

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Steve denied, knowing full well it had been on the tip of his tongue. He caught his shield and settled it on his arm.

 

Brynja wandered a little towards where the other guards had come from and gasped. “It goes on for ages!”

 

Steve jogged over to her to see what she was seeing. The halls went on and on and in little niches were artifacts of magical natures. A strange eye-like contraption floated on its own, a circular device that glowed white stood on a pedestal, a golden brazier of fire that felt like Surtur’s heat, a piece of shattered stone with strange markings all over it, and a golden gauntlet with slots for stones or gems of some sort at the knuckles.

 

“They really do love gold,” Steve commented, looking for something that might resemble a Casket.

 

“We all have vices,” Ragnheiđr called from the other end of the Vault.

 

“I think I found it!” Fannar shouted and they all hurried towards him.

 

The young Jötunn stepped up to the tall pedestal set against a shining white wall divided artfully by a gate-like structure. The Casket itself was a bit like the Tesseract, but larger and a darker blue. It had places to either side to grab it that were dark silver. Fannar started to reach for it, but Sverrir hurried forward and tugged him back.

 

“Let me,” Sverrir stepped up and placed his hands to either side of it and lifted. It came away with little effort and he turned to look back at the rest of them. “Foolish Asgardians!”

 

Fannar patted his uncle and touched the Casket as well. A freezing wind blustered through the hall and Steve shivered. “Let’s go!”

 

Steve turned and made for the portal back, but only got a couple steps in before Fannar screamed.

 

The gate-like construct in front of the white wall had vanished and a metal behemoth even taller than Laufey stepped out. As Sverrir raised the Casket to fend off the threat, the face plates on its face retracted and a beam of light poured out in a burst, vaporizing Sverrir in an instant.

 

The breath punched out of Steve’s lungs as he watched the Casket clatter to the ground. Fannar tried to pick it up, dazed, and was vaporized a second later. The scream of his name echoed in the space. It was just like the weapons Schmidt had made with the Tesseract’s power. It was the war all over again as if he’d never left. Panic shot into Steve’s heart and he began to scream.

 

“Retreat! Back to the portal, _now_!”

 

Brynja was ahead of him and she hurried as fast as she could, not even glancing back except to verify that Steve was behind her. Ragnheiđr was a bit slower and Steve darted forward, jumping in front of the beam with his shield in between them and the beam bore down on him unrelentingly.

 

“Run!” Steve ordered Ragnheiđr, determined to fight until his team made it back to Jötunheim. Death had him once and it could have him again.

 

“We fight together,” Ragnheiđr roared and charged the metal golem. He landed a heavy blow with a punch, but the metal only crushed the ice he’d built up around his hand. The beam abruptly stopped and Steve made to throw his shield, knowing that Ragnheiđr was the target now, but the beam had already found its mark.

 

Shaking, his gauntleted arm raised high, Steve prepared to follow Ragnheiđr’s example.

 

“Brother!” Brynja called, terrified, and his fear peaked. Not her, too. He couldn’t lose them all.

 

He blocked the beam with his shield and retreated until he could get around the corner, running as fast as he could before the metal golem could follow. Brynja was standing near the portal back and she gasped out in relief, her face covered in tears, as he came into view.

 

“You were right, it was a trap.”

 

“I know,” Steve said, barely able to breathe. “Ragnheiđr’s gone, too.”

 

Sobbing, Brynja yanked him forward. “We must flee!”

 

Steve turned to the sound of the golem’s footsteps and saw at the top of the stairs that led out of the Vaults that they had an audience. An old man wearing golden armor and a red cape stood between Loki and a tall blonde with silver armor and red cape. Odin and Thor, Steve realized and he glared at them, giving in as Brynja dragged him back through the portal.

 

* * *

 

 

The cold of Jötunheim barely registered as Steve stumbled back into the cave that had led to their doom. A storm had risen in their absence which felt like years instead of moments. Brynja was sobbing from her place on her knees and he found himself unable to stop his own tears.

 

_Do you enjoy being right?_

 

“No,” Steve breathed, tears blinding him as the portal vanished. This was supposed to be their triumph. This was supposed to be their chance to reclaim everything. This was his chance to go back or his chance to die for good. He had done neither. “Damn it!”

 

He clenched his fists and tried to swallow down the pain of it all, but it just rushed back up with a vengeance. He spun on his heel and attacked the wall where the portal had been with his shield. It bounced off and clanged into the open air, barely leaving a mark, but he pummeled it anyway. He punched the wall until his hands bled through his gloves and his lungs refused to take anymore abuse. Brynja’s sobs had slowed a bit and he rested his forehead against the stone he had just attempted to demolish.

 

An empty and bitter silence rang through his ears.

 

“We must tell Laufey,” Brynja said, her voice a broken thing.

 

Steve sighed as he tried to catch his breath and he nodded. “Yeah,” he closed his eyes as the full reality of what just happened rested on his shoulders. “The Asgardians...” his voice failed him and more tears fell from his eyes. “They’ll be coming back.”

 

“We must prepare for war,” Brynja pulled herself to her feet. “War and death, my grandmother said. We have one. Let us meet the other.”

 

Steve managed to wrangle his emotions back under the lock he’d had them in and he wiped his face. His cheeks were covered in ice. “We need to hurry.”

 

* * *

 

 

Laufey met them with the rage Steve felt and he cast titles and respect aside.

 

“Your pal Loki set us up,” Steve said as greeting, marching into the throne room with hatred in his blood. The next Asgardian he saw was getting a fang to their face. “The Casket was guarded by some big metal thing with a laser beam for a face!”

 

“I knew sending you would end in ruin,” Laufey growled and Steve scoffed.

 

“You want to blame me for this? Fine. But you aren’t the one who lost family on a fool’s errand,” Steve got as close as he could to Laufey without touching him. “Loki played you and we paid for it in blood.”

 

“Was the Casket there?” Laufey asked and Steve laughed.

 

“Oh, it was there. Unguarded at first glance. There weren’t even that many guards in the Vault. It was all a ruse.”

 

“To what end?” Laufey asked, though Steve could see he was already piecing it together.

 

“Loki wanted us to get caught. He wanted us to fail.”

 

Laufey looked to the edge of the kingdom, where it dropped off into the great expanse. “Odin could declare war for this.”

 

“He wanted to start a war?”

 

“He is but a child,” Laufey said, rising to standing. “He and all his kind are children playing at power.”

 

“What are we going to do?” Steve asked, glaring up at the Jötunn king.

 

“Wait for the inevitable. Prepare the rest of your family, Stígandr. We will surely have visitors soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

Þórvaldr didn’t take the news well, but then again neither did the rest of them. Dagný, Úlfr and Inga began to weep. Ađalbjörg sat down heavily and hugged Brynja close.

 

“You shouldn’t have gone,” Eiríkr whispered, a frown affixed on his face. “You wanted to leave so badly that you dragged us through the mud with you.”

 

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” Steve grit out, his voice raspy. He didn’t even realize how much he had been screaming.

 

"You think I did not understand why you showed me how to escape Utgard or to care for Nedra's twins? You think none of us understood why you were overflowing with gifts for us? You were saying goodbye," Eiríkr accused him and Steve tried to refute that, but nothing came out of his mouth. “You never planned to come back, but _they_ would not have left if not for you!” Eiríkr shouted and stomped out of the room.

 

Steve looked to Ađalbjörg who was clinging tightly to her daughter and to Hjördís whose unseeing eyes seemed to say _I told you so_. Steve looked to the ground and he ran over it all in his mind and wondered...would they still be alive if he had stayed? The fact that he couldn’t say no was enough to shatter his hold on his emotions. He gasped out a sob, shook his head and fled.

 

He crawled up to his little nook, which still held the remnants of his presence and he didn’t come down for hours and hours. Another storm blew through and vanished. He sat in the silence and wept. They had followed him. They had believed in him. He had led them to their deaths. All his talk of wanting to save their lives and he’d done exactly the opposite. Rocking in place, Steve tried to block out the images but his mind was a steel trap. Their deaths played like movies over and over, and if he weren’t completely aware that Hela wasn’t near, he would have thought she cursed him again. What could he have done different?

 

His thoughts were disrupted by a bolt of bright white piercing the dark sky and Steve shot to his feet.

 

The Asgardians were here.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve launched himself into the fight as soon as he got to it, attacking any Asgardian he saw. It was a small group, only Thor, Loki, a woman and three men. He headed first for Loki.

 

“You bastard!” he shouted, punching the lithe prince in the face. His arm went through the prince and out the other side before Loki vanished. Stumbling, Steve looked around until he found the magical prince again and he decided to not go head on.

 

He joined a fight against a man with an axe, dodging a blow meant for his head. He had lived through that already and once was enough. Ducking under the swing, he jabbed his shield into the man’s gut and watched him fly back a few feet with a huff. Þórvaldr was smacked by Thor’s hammer and lay immobile across the field. Anger and grief rose up in Steve like a hurricane and he marked Thor as his second opponent. Steve kept Loki in the corner of his eye and when the prince turned away from Steve to deal with Raze, he got a face full of shield.

 

Steve slid it back into place without a thought as soon as it boomeranged back to him and Loki looked up at him with a bloody nose. There was hatred in the green eyes that stared at him and he grinned as he had so long ago to the wolves that tried to eat him. Just like he had done then, Steve opened his arms and beckoned Loki to come and get him.

 

With a growl, the prince headed straight for him. Raze lay dead on the ground and Loki’s sleeve was ripped. Steve braced himself and was about to meet Loki’s attack head on when Brynja shouted to him and he turned to see Thor bearing down on him with his hammer. Thinking fast, Steve crouched under his shield. The hammer met it with an almighty boom and though Steve could feel the ground buckle, he was unharmed. The rest of the field had been swept off their feet. Rising, Steve glared at Thor and Loki who were guarding one of their injured party.

 

A roar met Steve’s ears and he glanced to his left. The Beast that had remained dormant all this time waking and the Asgardians began to flee. Steve gave chase as did quite a few Jötunn. Brynja was right beside him.

 

“They dare attack our city!” she cried out and Steve jumped into her outstretched hand, climbing up to her shoulder and letting her greater speed get him closer. The Beast was outstripping them and Steve got an idea. He put his shield on his back to free up his hands.

 

“Throw me to the Beast!” he shouted and Brynja saw what he had planned.

 

“Ymir watch over you, brother,” Brynja said and threw him as Sverrir used to.

 

He landed on the Beast’s back and gripped one of the spines to stay there. As soon as he was slightly anchored, it leapt through a hole in the crumbling ground and ran beneath it. Steve held on as tight as he could, vertigo washing over him at the strange angle. He could see the expanse in its entirety from here and he gave it all of a second’s attention before the Beast came up in front of the Asgardians.

 

Steve leapt down and went after Loki once more, but the prince attacked him with daggers. He deflected all but one that grazed his cheek. Steve ignored the pain, persistent on ending the one who led them to all of this. As he found an opening and made to stab his fanged gauntlet into Loki’s throat, the bright light returned.

 

Steve was knocked off his feet and fell towards the Jötunn who had begun to gather on the other side of the Asgardians. Rolling back and climbing back to his feet, Steve turned to see what had come.

 

Odin, the _All-Father_ , had arrived to save his sons. “Enough!”

 

“All-father,” Laufey said, stepping up to Odin. “You look weary.”

 

“End this now,” Odin sighed and Steve wanted nothing more than to bury his fang in the king.

 

“Your boy sought this out,” Laufey said and a smirk wormed its way onto his face.

 

Shifting on his strange, eight-legged horse, Odin swayed. “You’re right. But these were the actions of a boy, treat them as such. We can end this together, here and now, without anymore bloodshed.”

 

Steve growled, his hands clenched into fists, but Laufey said what Steve felt.

 

“We are beyond diplomacy now, All-father. You’ll get what he came for: war, and death.”

 

Blinking slowly, Odin bowed his head. “No,” Steve stepped closer, ready to attack and Odin looked at him. “He was in my vaults.”

 

Steve didn’t say a word, only glared up at the king.

 

“We will have peace,” Odin said and he raised his staff. Steve felt something like a hand on his back and he stumbled forward as he was pushed. “I will take this one as the price for your intrusion. All is equal.”

 

Steve made to protest and Laufey began to speak, but the funnel of white came down around them and Jötunheim disappeared. He heard Brynja’s scream cut off as they were carried across the cosmos.

 

* * *

 

 

Guards not unlike the ones he and his team had killed in the vaults surrounded him and Steve tried to fight but they were quicker. They secured his wrists with shackles and at Odin’s gesture he was escorted away. The three men and the woman came with them, carrying their injured friend. The bridge was long and the trip seemed to take ages. The guards did not speak to him and he refused to speak to them. He had nothing to say to those who would attack his family.

 

They brought him down into a dungeon and cast him into an empty cell. As the golden walls rose up around him, Steve screamed.

 

* * *

 

 

He was left to his own devices for what felt like a cycle, left to his grief and his anger. He paced and paced, the silence growing like a living thing as no one came to speak to him and none of the other prisoners would look at him. He spoke to Bor, even if he couldn’t see him, and to Ymir, even if he didn’t believe in him. He asked for their help, for protection of his people, for freedom.

 

 _You have found the silence, Stígandr,_ he could hear Birgir say, _now it finds you_.

 

He tested the walls and paced some more. They brought him no food and he didn’t expect them to. He was the enemy and they wouldn’t lower themselves for common decency. He didn’t think he could bring himself to eat anything anyway. His stomach was in knots and he worried that his family was in danger. He called for Bor and Ymir again and again, desperation seeping into his voice.

 

He couldn’t lose them, too.

 

* * *

 

 

His first visitor was the last person he ever wanted to see.

 

“Loki,” he grit out, standing from a crouch. He had been lost in memories before he heard the footfalls of a guest.

 

“Midgardian,” Loki greeted him, Odin’s staff in his hands. “Comfortable?”

 

“I will be when I see the life drain out of you.”

 

Smiling without teeth and tilting his head, Loki exhaled through his nose. He opened his arms as Steve had back in Utgard. “Here I stand. What are you waiting for?”

 

“Release me and you’ll get what you deserve.”

 

“Oh,” Loki laughed, a cruel and mocking thing. “No, it is _you_ who shall get what you deserve.”

 

Narrowing his eyes, Steve frowned. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Your precious Jötunheim. Now that I am king, there is no need to pretend that attacks on my kingdom shall go unpunished.”

 

“You can’t,” Steve said, slamming his fist into the shimmering golden wall.

 

“But alas, I can. I hope you said all your goodbyes, Midgardian.”

 

“No!” Steve rammed his shield into the wall and it buzzed. He did it again as Loki began to laugh heartily at him.

 

“Don’t worry,” the smirking prince said, leaning close to the barrier between them. “You won’t remember a thing.”

 

A flash of green light enveloped his vision and Steve’s world went dark.


	16. Do or Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and if you do, consider buying me a [ coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/ticklekill)

**_Present Day..._ **

 

Sif held tight to Steve’s hand as they made their way into the spiked globe and he was grateful for it. Every step he took nearer to it, the more his mind seemed determined to remind him of all he’d lost the moment he first came here. He had left behind his godsons, his sister, his family. He had left them to Loki’s horrible mercy and just as with the Vaults, he survived when he should not. Helblindi would not have even seen it, unless he had vision as Hjördís did. The child, which he had given a wolf’s helm so that he could survive as Steve had, would have been powerless to stop the destruction.

 

He had left Midgard in the same way. He had abandoned them against his will and he found he could not stomach the idea that Midgard was gone, too.

 

 _Your home is gone, you will never see it again_ , Hjördís had predicted and all else she had said had come true. He shivered where he stood as he thought of Bucky and Peggy, and all the remnants of his home before Jötunheim. It would all be gone. The people he knew would be gone, even if they remained. Bucky wouldn’t be the one he lost, Peggy wouldn’t be the young woman he fell for. Everything would be different even as it stayed uncannily the same.

 

 _You will say farewell to many things._ Ólafur could not have known what was coming, but his words were truer than Steve wanted to admit. It was not merely a mistake he mourned, but himself and all he might have been if he had never landed on Jötunheim. It was also every life he hadn’t saved, every fight he left unfinished. He hadn’t even reconciled with Eiríkr before he left. How they must have hated him.

 

_If you abandon them now, you will deserve to be hated._

 

Would anyone on Midgard even remember him?

 

He hesitated upon the threshold that led inside the Observatory, as the Asgardians called it, and he felt like he was going to be sick. Closing his eyes, he breathed deep and let it out slow. As soon as he had faith that he could keep his innards where they belonged, he forced himself to step inside.

 

The last time he had been here, he had been in chains.

 

Heimdall, the man with fire in his eyes, turned towards them as they approached. He held a sword solemnly in front of him with the point down.

 

“Steve Rogers of Midgard,” Heimdall said, nodding to Sif without looking at her. “You are a mystery.”

 

“Am I?” Steve asked, blinking as Sif released him and went to greet Heimdall with a kiss upon his cheek. The guardian tilted his head to her ever so slightly but showed no other sign that he noticed.

 

“Yes,” Heimdall stepped down closer to Steve, leaving his sword resting against the center of the pedestal. “I could not see you on Jötunheim or yet in Asgard until recently. You were as the princes are, hidden from my sight. It was Loki’s magic that allowed the Jötunn passage to Asgard unseen. What magic hid you?”

 

Steve cleared his throat. “I...” he thought to lie, but Heimdall shook his head. Chastised by the gesture, Steve sighed. “King Brimer of the storm giants defeated me in combat. I got killed, I walked it off.”

 

Shrugging as though it was a normal thing to have said, Steve looked to Sif who frowned at him, then to the Warriors Three who exchanged strange looks.

 

“Hela spared you?” Heimdall asked him and Steve nodded reluctantly. There was something about his death and coming back that felt secret here in Asgard. “Why?”

 

“I was worth sparing,” Steve said, but didn’t elaborate.

 

“Indeed,” Heimdall turned away from him. “Midgard awaits, Steve Rogers.”

 

“Can you...can you show me?”

 

“Not in the way you can see with your eyes,” Heimdall held out a hand and curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture. Steve hesitated for all of a moment before climbing the steps leading up to the guardian. “Focus on what you wish to see.”

 

Steve tried to focus on Bucky, but the idea of knowing for certain he was alive spooked him. He couldn’t bear to lose him twice. Instead, he began to focus on Peggy. It wasn’t that he didn’t fear losing her, but that he had already envisioned such a thing. She was not a woman to be held captive by a memory. She wouldn’t waste her life on a ghost. Steve was nothing but a ghost. He saw her face in his mind as it had been, youthful and determined. It was a lie, like the dream of coming home had always been, and he told it to himself again.

 

Warm, strong hands cupped either side of Steve’s face and a shiver ran up his spine. Power and magic were in the hands on his skin, and the fact that it did not burn made him realize how much he missed it. Of course, he had felt this warmth from Frigga and in some ways from Sif, but Heimdall’s touch brought him back to the mountain and to Brynja. It called to him as Frigga’s warmth had called to him and he found himself answering.

 

 _Peggy Carter_ , he said to himself in a mantra and colors burst into his mind. Images flew past him too quick to see and his vision blurred.

 

“Focus, Steve Rogers,” Heimdall repeated and with a grunt, he pushed all other thoughts away.

 

One image, clear and bright, settled above the rest. It was Peggy behind a metal desk, windows of moving pictures behind her and a black man with his arms crossed standing opposite her. She had cut her hair and it had lost its color. Wrinkles lined her face as he imagined they would and she passed a folder across the table to the man. Inclining his head, the man with a patch over one eye as Odin had, took the folder. Steve refocused on Peggy. He wished he could call out to her. Her image faded as the little cut out in his old compass had. He didn’t try to hold onto it.

 

Heimdall removed his hands and Steve swayed. “I can describe to you what I see, but that is the first and last glimpse through my eyes you will ever receive.”

 

“Thank you,” Steve said, stumbling back. He lowered himself down a couple steps. He realized he could have asked for anything. He could have been shown Schmidt and the Valkyrie, he could have chosen Bucky...but he didn’t.

 

Something about Peggy, so different and yet so similar to the one he left, solidified in his mind that Hjördís was right. He would never see his world again. At least, not the one he left. There was no point in mourning. He had done enough of that on Jötunheim and far too much in front of these Asgardians. He had said farewell to his old life once, he wouldn’t cry for it forever. Still, the thought of seeing more of Midgard, more of the changes that had taken place in his absence, struck his heart like a knife.

 

Breathing deep, Steve decided to pick the safest course of action. His heart would not withstand anything more.

 

“Where did you last see the princes?” he asked and wiped his hand down his face. His beard was thick and long, another mark of how much time had passed. His hair irritated his ears now that he didn’t need it to keep him warm. He would be unrecognizable on Midgard...on _Earth_. In his first home, his birth realm, he would find his anonymity again.

 

“Thor was banished first and was cast down to a place of sand named Puente Antiguo. Soon after, he vanished from my sight. Loki followed days later, though he landed outside a great city named New York.”

 

Steve’s rumination passed as if whisked away by a stiff breeze. Shock took its place. “What?”

 

“He stayed within my sights for but a moment, before vanishing as well.”

 

“In New York City?” Steve asked, though he didn’t expect an answer. It appeared that fate had a grim sense of humor. “I know it well.”

 

“Good. That is where you will be sent when you embark upon your mission,” Heimdall turned from him and resumed his post at the center of the Observatory. “I sense you are not yet ready to undertake it. You should prepare yourself. It will come whether you want it or not.”

 

Steve sighed and nodded, leading the way out of the Observatory and back to the horses.

 

* * *

 

 

He couldn’t bring himself to go back to Heimdall and ask for more information about Midgard... _Earth_ \- not yet at least - so he occupied himself in other ways. He had told the Jötunn that the more he knew about his enemy the more certain his victory. So he went to a place where he knew the Asgardians kept their souls.

 

The library was just as golden and expansive as the rest of the kingdom and Steve scoffed as he marched through the entranceway. There was no librarian to stop him or to tell him not to walk so loudly on the stone floor, and Steve let his instinct guide him. He bypassed many shelves, until he heard someone reading in sotto voice. It sounded like a young man.

 

Despite the fact that he came to the library in pursuit of solitude, he walked towards the person anyway.

 

Bent over a table full of tomes, a somewhat familiar face was pulled into a concentrated frown. He didn’t know the young man’s name, but he remembered him from the sparring grounds.

 

“What is your name?” he asked instead of introducing himself.

 

The attendant gasped and jolted away from the table, his mouth agape and his soft brown eyes wide. “Uh, sir, you startled me.”

 

“Your name?” Steve asked once more and the attendant swallowed, pulling himself up to his full height. He was only a little shorter than Steve. There was a thought, fleeting and foolish, that maybe he could take the name and never give it back. He felt wolfish and impulsive.

 

“I am known as Þórir...sir,” Þórir made an aborted bow and Steve stepped nearer, his overcoat flaring out a little.

 

“Are you afraid of me?”

 

“No, sir,” Þórir gulped and shook his head. “You are powerful, sir, but you are not Asgardian.”

 

“No,” he agreed, his lips twitching upward. “No, I’m not.”

 

“Yet you survived Jötunheim for eleven cycles. Even one of my people would struggle to survive one alone as you were,” A curiosity like Heimdall’s bled through Þórir’s voice. “You are...not entirely Midgardian, are you?”

 

Steve moved even closer, until he could reach out and touch Þórir if he wanted to. He looked to the many books laid out. The symbols were familiar, if only because it was almost the same as the letters the storm giants had scrawled in their marketplace. He couldn’t really read it, but it didn’t take a genius to find a commonality between the alphabet he grew up with and this alien scrawl.

 

“Midgard, hmm?” Steve ensured that Þórir couldn’t flee, turning himself so that the Asgardian would have to tackle him to get by. “Why are you so interested in Midgard?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Þórir said, leaning forward to try and close the books. Steve stopped him with a hand on his chest.

 

“Tell me the truth.”

 

Swallowing, which Steve was beginning to think was a nervous tick, Þórir leaned away until he was pressed against the wall.

 

“There has never been a man like you,” Þórir whispered, licking his lips. “It should not have been possible for you to survive.”

 

“I didn’t,” Steve said, pushing into Þórir’s personal space and staring at the man. “Hela showed me mercy when I ended up in her realm. She called me her fierce wolf,” he gripped his own arm where his gauntlet used to be. There was no telling what the Asgardians had done with it. It was probably in the vaults. “She gave me a fang and said that I was Garm’s brother.”

 

Þórir shuddered at the thought. “And were you?”

 

“An entire world is gone and I’m alive. In a way, I’m worse,” A self-deprecating smile crawled its way onto Steve’s face and he leaned in until he could place his teeth over Þórir’s throat. “Are you afraid now?”

 

Þórir gasped and slipped a little down the wall, his eyes fluttering closed. “Yes...I am afraid.”

 

Chuckling, Steve stepped away and turned his back. “Can you show me where the Asgard section is?”

 

After a moment, Þórir pulled himself away from the wall. “Right...right this way.”

 

* * *

 

 

The tales of the Asgardian rulers going back to the start of them all were written and illustrated in more books than the years Steve spent on Jotunheim. He devoured a quarter of them in his first sitting. He read of the exploits of Bor and Odin, of the battles with Svartalfheim and Jötunheim, with the many enemies that sought to unseat Asgard from it’s place on Yggdrasil. He read of Laufey’s conquest of Midgard, of Odin’s victory, and of the taking of the Casket. It all seemed too good and just in the paint on the pages, but it was written in his family’s blood. The words were poison in his mind and he absorbed it like a man intent on surviving any attempt on his life.

 

Thor and Loki had less tales written about them, but they were still young. He read Thor’s first, if only because he didn’t truly know the man. It was Loki’s stories that boiled his blood and set his heart to a beat of vengeance. He read them anyway. Nothing changed his feelings for the sons of Odin, but he doubted they would change any time soon.

 

When he knew as much as he could about Asgard, he turned to other things. First it was Jötunheim, until the images of Jötunn as beasts made him sick and he realized that Loki was the only one alive now. Then it was of Svartalfheim and of a powerful weapon called the Aether. Curious, he had researched more of the Aether and found something he didn’t think to see again. Glowing on the page, the lines of blue so precisely draw it looked like a photograph, the Tesseract stared back at him. The magic in the parchment caused the colors within the cube to tangle around each other. He reached out, as he had on the Valkyrie, and ran his fingers along the painting. It did not move him from his seat in the library, nor did it transport him back to the place he had come to call home. He remained in Asgard, surrounded on all sides by those that would have killed him had he been blue. His hand balled into a fist over the Tesseract and he stifled the urge to rip it out.

 

“It is an Infinity Stone,” Þórir said softly, stepping into the nook Steve had not left for two days. “It is said that, once gathered, the one who wields them could unmake the universe. They could crush the seed that grew Yggdrasil, and snuff out every sun.”

 

“This one,” Steve pointed to the Tesseract and Þórir stepped to the opposite side of the table. “Is the reason I was on Jötunheim. I tried to stop a man from destroying Midgard.”

 

“And you were repaid with exile?”

 

Sighing, Steve closed the book. He had read all he needed to anyway. “I thought I could control it, if only for a moment. I was wrong.”

 

“Mortals cannot wield the Stones without the Infinity Gauntlet,” Þórir leaned against the table with his crossed arms.

 

“The one in your king’s vault?” Steve asked quietly and met Þórir’s gaze with the same intensity his opponents on the sparring grounds received. A heavy silence fell over them and Þórir shot to his feet. Steve expected it and grabbed Þórir’s forearm. “Answer my question.”

 

“What will you do with the knowledge?”

 

“Whatever I have to,” Steve tugged on Þórir’s arm until he was forced to bend. “Is the gauntlet in the vault?”

 

Þórir clenched his fist but stuttered an answer. “Y...yes.”

 

Nodding, Steve loosened his grip and ran his hand gently down until he could examine Þórir’s palm. “I lost so much in that vault. Only my sister and I survived.”

 

“Your sister?”

 

“Her name was Brynja. She was the most beautiful Jotunn to have ever lived,” Tears found their way to his eyes and he let them come. It seems he wasn’t finished mourning everything yet. “She found me by the river and helped me kill the storm king’s wolves. Without her, I wouldn’t be here now.”

 

“She died with the rest?” Þórir asked and Steve felt his rage surge. He pressed his fingers into Þórir’s skin until he drew blood.

 

“Brynja, my godsons, my _entire_ family...” His voice was a growl and his hand shook. He released Þórir’s and blood dripped onto the image of the Tesseract. “I’m sorry.”

 

He shoved his chair back and stormed out of the library.

 

* * *

 

 

Even though he couldn’t escape the Asgardians, he could take his anger out on them. There was no shortage of warriors willing to spar with him and when he couldn’t bring himself to remain idle, he would search them out.

 

Fighting didn’t require his heart or his grief. It only required his hatred.

 

At first, he didn’t notice the audience that had begun to gather when he stripped himself of his overcoat and tunic to fight Asgardians. But over time, they became unignorable. He switched weapons for every fight, testing his strengths and weaknesses, and when he was cut he would laugh. By the time he returned to the grounds, his wounds were healed. No one ever saw him in the Healing Halls.

 

High above the sparring grounds there was a balcony and sometimes he would see Odin and others Frigga. They didn’t say anything to him, but they watched him closely. He wondered what they would do to him if he decided not to help them.

 

Fandral and Volstagg would come and challenge him occasionally. But neither Hogun nor Sif had come yet. He looked for them, but he had more things on his mind than searching out Asgardians. When he was on the sparring grounds, they came to him.

 

* * *

 

 

At night, when the stars glowed bright and there were cheers and songs from the mead halls, Steve would come to the sparring grounds alone. The sand turned blue in the low light and the flames went cold, leaving him in the dark. It was as close to Jotunheim as he could get. In the quiet, he would speak to Ymir and to Bor. The latter had lost its mysticism now that he had read of the true man. Still, he had found peace in the king’s presence.

 

They didn’t answer him, or at least they didn’t communicate as they had on Jotunheim, but he felt them just the same. It rested in that place inside of him where he used to feel Brynja and the others. In that pure and boundless feeling that had led him blind through Brimer’s mountain. They lived on in that feeling and would for as long as he lived.

 

“Ymir,” he whispered into the empty sparring ring. “I hope my family is with you. I hope they are happy and safe. I hope you’ve given them a welcome like this Asgardian king would to his worshippers. I hope there is a great hall made of ice and snow and that they feast with you there. I hope my godsons are laughing. I hope my sister is at peace.”

 

The thought of it hurt but it was a good hurt. If they couldn’t go to a Christian heaven, maybe they could go to one made by Ymir. Anything but languishing in an empty afterlife.

 

Steve laughed and laid on his back in the sand. He gazed up at the stars, as strange and alien as the ones he saw in Jötunheim were. He wondered if the other gods of his birth realm were real somewhere. He laughed again as he thought of some man or woman up there watching him. Odin and Frigga did and so did the other Asgardians. He was a spectacle to everyone. Always the star of a lifelong tour, Steve had decided he would perform on many stages before Hela or Hades or some other death deity saw fit to take him. He wasn’t worthy yet, just as the princes of Asgard weren’t. He wasn’t allowed to die.

 

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Steve called out to the sky and the stars.

 

“Are you pretending to be dead?” Hogun asked from the shadows and Steve pressed his head into the sand until his back was bent and the crown of his head was parallel with the ground. The stone floor had become his sky and the sky his floor. Hogun stood on his earthen ceiling.

 

“I can’t die.”

 

“You have once,” Hogun said, stepping slowly towards him. “Death is always possible.”

 

“Not for me,” Steve said and shifted until he was looking once more at the sky. “Not anymore.”

 

“Then prove it,” Hogun hoisted his mace up and its spikes appeared with a snick of metal. “Rise and fight me.”

 

Grinning, Steve leapt to his feet. “No weapons.” He had left his shield in his chamber.

 

Retracting the spikes, Hogun laid his mace upon the ground. “Begin.”

 

Steve aimed a fist for Hogun’s head, but it was dodged and Hogun tagged his ribs. Grunting, he raised his fists again and swung for his chest. Hogun stepped out of range. Frustrated, Steve unleashed a flurry of blows, each more unpredictable than the last. Hogun either blocked or parried them all. Panting, Steve narrowed his eyes.

 

“What magic are you using?”

 

“Patience,” Hogun answered and jabbed at Steve’s frowning face. Despite blocking, it still connected with his nose.

 

“Ow,” Steve breathed, chuckling. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson?”

 

Looking around them, Hogun held out his arms. “This is the sparring grounds. It is a place of learning.”

 

“Are you offering?” Steve said, repeating what he had said the last time he had fought Hogun.

 

“Are you willing?” Hogun countered and Steve lowered his fists.

 

He breathed deep of the night air and he welcomed the cold breeze. Ymir was in the cold. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

When he tired of training, of using his body until he depleted his energy completely, he spent hours standing beside the keeper of the bridge. He could no longer run from his fate. Brynja would have reprimanded him for having taken so long already.

 

Heimdall accommodated him without pause, watching over the cosmos, pointing out what wonders he could see and Steve sketched what he described on the parchment he had found in the library. Without having set foot back on his own realm, Steve knew what it looked like, who inhabited it, and what time had done to change it. He knew the scope of the city that was once his New York, how time had molded its streets and architecture to bleed the Tesseract’s power wherever one looked. He knew the vehicles that they drove could hover above the ground, like Howard Stark’s invention had only attempted to so many decades ago. He knew that many buildings were glowing blue, and that many streets were patrolled by officers in black uniforms with circular red patches over the hearts.

 

With parchment and charcoal, Steve captured the scenes Heimdall painted. Inside of him was a growing ball of rage, coiled in his stomach like a sickness, scratching up his throat for release. He brooded over the images as he made them, harsh dark lines curving around a cityscape he didn’t recognize anymore. They didn’t even look like he remembered. Heimdall might as well have been telling him of an alien world. Perhaps it was. His Earth was gone.

 

Fandral, Volstagg and Sif always knew when he had been with Heimdall on the days they spoke of Midgard. He had once thrown Tyr across the sparring ring in one of his fits of anger. The worst part of it all was Steve’s inability to do anything about the things he had heard.

 

Apparently it was an Asgardian honor to be a living punching bag. They never begged off when he got too intense, if anything they called in more warriors. He sought peace with Hogun for days. Eventually though, Steve would always return to the bridge.

 

It wasn’t always Midgard they spoke of.

 

Some days it was of Alfheim or Nidavellir, others it was of realms even further away. Those ones occasionally had no proper names, or were uninhabited, or had been visited by a great calamity. One place, which he had trouble envisioning, was the skull of some great Titan and people lived inside of it. Considering all he had seen so far, Steve wouldn’t doubt it. There must be countless worlds along Yggdrasil and beyond. How many trees dotted the universe? How many gods could he speak to if he travelled there?

 

Heimdall had no answers for him, only images.

 

Steve drew Heimdall, the Warriors Three, and Sif. He marked this world as he had Jotunheim.

 

* * *

  

One night, it was Sif who waited for him on the sparring grounds, not Hogun. She had no weapons or armor and he descended the steps to the sand in confusion.

 

“Do you want to fight?” he asked and Sif said nothing. She stared at him for a long moment before walking towards him. “Do you want to talk?”

 

“I want know what you plan to do,” Sif gripped his hand and pulled him further into the ring. “I want to know your plan for finding Thor...and Loki.”

 

“I still haven’t decided to go.”

 

“You will,” she said and took his other hand. “You are noble, even if you pretend you are not.”

 

Steve stared into Sif’s eyes and pulled against her hold until she stopped moving. Holding her hands, Steve sighed. “I’m not... _noble_. I haven’t been noble in cycles...in _years_. You’re seeing something that doesn’t exist.”

 

Sif tugged her hands free and cupped Steve’s face. Her touch was not Hela’s, nor Frigga’s, nor Heimdall’s. It was still the call to battle, the moon-berries for the dark caves. He found himself making a miserable sound through his nose like a whimper. Physical closeness was something that, though not uncommon in Jötunheim, was not something that came without pain. Sif’s touch was painless, but Steve’s skin cried out for it.

 

“I see you clearly, Steve. I see a man who has been torn apart, piece by piece, and yet still lives. I see a man who mourns his people, his adopted people, so fiercely that he thinks of nothing but joining them. I see a man who could be great, if he stopped clinging to that which has been buried,” Sif moved until she was able to lower Steve’s head so it rested on her shoulder. She had done the same on the Bïfrost, when the thought of Midgard was a terrifying thing. He closed his eyes. “So much life surrounds you and you do not see it.”

 

“Asgardian life?” Steve lifted his head to look at her. “You want me to care about _your_ people’s lives.” He removed her hands and stepped away. “After what they did?”

 

“That was Loki,” Sif asserted, reaching for him, but he swatted her hands away.

 

“I’ve read your histories,” He stared at her and his anger rose again. Hogun’s voice echoed in his ears and he forced the anger out through his exhales. “I’ve read all about your people and what they think of mine. _Both_ of mine.”

 

“Steve,” Sif began and he shook his head.

 

“Midgardians are less than fleas to you. They worshipped you and you abandoned them. Jötunheim was just a threat to your worship. A rival to your prayers and sacrifices. You don’t protect the realms from others. You protect yourself.”

 

Sif grit her teeth. “Is that what you think? You would hate us even if we could bring Jötunheim back. You would hate us in the name of Loki, of Laufey, of all the people who poisoned your view of us. Queen Frigga has done nothing but support you, the Warriors Three adore you, even Heimdall, who is the last to trust anyone, believes in you.”

 

Steve listened to her words and hated himself. “Why?!” he shouted at her, tears springing into his eyes. “Why do you care about me? Why do any of you? The Jötunn loved me! Now they are _dead_ !” His voice broke and he realized suddenly why he hated the Asgardians so much. It wasn’t just that they had done so much to the Jötunn, but that they didn’t hate him back. They believed in him as Midgard had, as Jötunheim had. He didn’t deserve it; he would _never_ deserve it.

 

“But not because of _you_!” Sif ignored his protests and grabbed his face again. “You cannot continue to lament your mistakes. Atone for them or be silent,” She shoved him away and retrieved a sword from the racks that lined the ring. “Arm yourself.”

 

“I won’t fight you,” he said, not moving.

 

“Why not?” Sif swung her sword lazily. “Am I not Loki? Am I not the destroyer of Jötunheim?”

 

“Don’t joke about my home,” Steve growled but Sif laughed.

 

“What home? You have no home,” Sif blocked his punch with the flat side of her chosen sword and laughed again. “Poor Steve, the pitiful Midgardian so alone.”

 

She swung at him and he caught it with his bare hand, ignoring the pain. He had cut his hand on a giant’s sword and he hadn’t died. This would be no different. He yanked her towards him so he could grip her by the front of her dress. His anger rose once more.

 

“Shut your mouth,” he demanded and was knocked flat on his back before he saw her move.

 

The point of her sword was at his own throat and she stood above him. She stared down at him in disappointment. “You are truly pathetic and do not deserve our respect.”

 

“I know,” Steve sighed, closing his eyes. “You only care about me because I can get your _beloved_ princes back.”

 

“That is not true,” Sif crouched above him and stabbed the sword into the ground by his head. “I want Thor back more than anything, but I do care for you.”

 

Steve pulled Sif down so she laid on him. “No, you don’t.”

 

Brushing his hair from his face, Sif’s gaze lingered on no part of it. “Who would not love you, Steve?”

 

“Death,” he whispered.

 

Laughing, Sif pressed her hand against his heart. “Even Hela could not deny you.”

 

“I’m a curse.”

 

“Then make of yourself a blessing,” Sif kissed him chastely and was gone before he opened his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He ran into Þórir in a mead hall that was raucous with celebration. The Asgardian was laughing and eating meat with his fingers, but he noticed Steve almost immediately. The cheer fled from Þórir’s face and Steve sidled past a servant to reach him. As soon as his course became clear, Þórir rose and drained his cup.

 

“Wait!” Steve called out to him and when the Asgardian ignored him, he picked up his pace. “Þórir, wait!”

 

Þórir didn’t stop until they were in an empty hall. “What do you want?”

 

“I shouldn’t have hurt you,” Steve kept his distance. “You didn’t deserve it.”

 

“Did Ymir tell you that?” Þórir sneered and Steve sighed.

 

“Ymir would want you dead, according to the Jötunn. After all, your people harmed his people,” Steve smiled sheepishly. “I don’t want you dead.”

 

“Again, what _do_ you want?”

 

“To start over,” Steve answered, thinking of every moment that led to where he was now. “To begin again.”

 

“Your world must be so simple,” Þórir said, crossing his arms. “To think my people’s sins negate your own, to take out your own self-hatred on others. You are no better than Loki.”

 

The comparison made him feel sick. “That’s not who I want to be.”

 

“I do not believe you.”

 

His rage was a living thing, but Steve breathed until it grew quiet again. His fingers ached where he clenched them into a fists. “I won’t try to prove it to you. I proved myself to kings and queens and to giants. I won’t live my life that way.”

 

“Then how _will_ you live your life?” Þórir stared at him until Steve met his eyes.

 

“I haven’t figured it out.”

 

“Then perhaps you should,” Þórir nodded to him. “My lord.”

 

Steve didn’t pursue the Asgardian. There was no point in it, so he joined the feast. They had more than enough mead and food to go around.

 

* * *

 

 

If he wasn’t reading or fighting, Steve would pace the halls and streets of Asgard. They were innumerable and grand beyond anything he had seen before. He didn’t really speak to the Asgardians he encountered, but they had somehow come to realize that he preferred his silence. They nodded to him and continued on their way and would nod back. He had been provided with more clothing, though the style didn’t really change. There was always a flowing overcoat, though he abhorred the red ones, and boots and a belt. Sometimes the tunic was short and had no sleeves. Other times the tunic was long and the sleeves gripped his wrists tightly. There was always a design around the edges, though it alternated between silver and gold.

 

In the habits of the Asgardians, he could almost be mistaken for one. He was as tall and strong as they were, and if the serum continued its work, he may even live as long as they do. He knew their histories and the heroes, their victories and their defeats. If his family could see him now, they would hate him. In some ways, he hated himself.

 

He had not seen Frigga for weeks and since he knew she was the Queen, he didn’t try to seek her out. Nedra had wanted him within reach at all times, but it was not the same here. _He_ was the outsider now. He was the one in need of allies.

 

Still, it was impossible to escape the royalty whose sons’ futures rested in his hands.

 

Frigga found him in front of a statue of Bor, deciding whether or not he would abandon the spirit because of what he was. Odin’s father had aided Steve in many ways, though none he could put into words. It was the feeling of it. And to think an Asgardian had helped him survive and an Asgardian had taken it all away.

 

“Steve, I hope you are well,” Frigga called out to him and he turned his head enough to nod, before resuming his staring contest with a dead man. “Bor Burison holds more interest than me?”

 

She didn’t say it with spite, only humor. Steve let himself grin. “I knew him, before I came here.”

 

“How?” Frigga sidled up beside him and folded her hands in front of her. She gazed up at Bor as well.

 

“He came to me in the snow. He told me Yggdrasil would rain down sons like falling leaves.”

 

“And so it did,” Frigga smiled ruefully. “It is _my_ sons I had hoped to speak to you about.”

 

“I know the place where Loki was banished. If I was to start looking for them, I’d start there.”

 

“So have you decided to aid us?”

 

“My family would hate me for it,” Steve laughed mirthlessly and looked away from Bor. “But anything I’ve ever done has been to bring peace.”

 

“And you can do that here. Asgard needs to be at peace or it will fall. You may hate us, but you can also help us.”

 

“I don’t hate you...not like I should,” He pressed his fingertips to his lips where Sif had kissed him. “But what kind of man would I be if I stood by and did nothing?”

 

“You would not be _you_ ,” Frigga laid her hand on his arm before walking away.

 

* * *

 

 

“Tell me about Thor,” Steve said, knocking Sif’s sword away from him. She stuck her tongue out at him as he had done to her whenever he tripped her up.

 

“What do you want to know?”

 

“Why’s he worth saving?”

 

Pausing, Sif dropped out of her fighting stance. “He is the heir to the throne of Asgard.”

 

“So is Loki.”

 

“No...” Sif let out a quick sigh. “Thor is the _only_ heir. Loki is a Jotunn.”

 

“And a prince of Asgard. Why I don’t I save him and leave Thor?”

 

Sif’s entire demeanor changed. “You wouldn’t dare!”

 

Shrugging, Steve tilted his head. “Why not? We Jötunn are beasts and defilers. Why should Jötunheim be the only one blessed with his good work?”

 

He blocked Sif’s attack and tapped her shoulder blades with his shield. She spun and he had to dodge back. “You _hate_ him.”

 

“He’s the last of his kind,” Steve blocked another hit and kicked out at her. “By virtue of that fact, he has to live.”

 

“Now you care about Asgardian lives?”

 

“I care about Jötunn lives, I care about Midgardian lives. I have _always_ cared.”

 

“You do not act like it.”

 

“I can care and still hate you.”

 

“But you do not hate Thor. He does not deserve your ire.”

 

“He killed Þórvaldr and many other Jötunn.”

 

“So did I.”

 

Steve caught Sif’s attack with his shield and locked her arm in his. “But I don’t hate you.”

 

“Nor I you, Steve. But Thor is my prince and I love him dearly. So whatever he has done to you, know he suffers now on Midgard for it. As does Loki. Be merciful to them as we were not with the Jötunn.”

 

“Be the better man?”

 

“Be a kinder man and you will be better for it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Steve had seen the entirety of Asgard, but he had yet to see its king again. Considering his last conversation with the man, he understood. But the son of Bor was the father of those he had been chosen to find. If he would have everyone’s word, then he would also have Odin’s.

 

Gaining an audience with the All-Father was probably much more difficult for normal Asgardians, but one request sent by Þórir and he was standing in front of the throne.

 

“I have come to a decision,” Steve said, taking in the marvelous throne room for the second or third time. It seemed unchanged by anything.

 

Odin lifted his spear and set it down. All of the guards turned with military precision and left. The hall echoed in their absence. Standing, Odin descended the steps until he was across from Steve.

 

“Tell me what you have chosen.”

 

Taking a breath, Steve tugged on his beard. “If your sons are in danger, Midgard...” he sighed in frustration at himself. “ _Earth_ may also be in danger. My enemy had the Tesseract. There is no way to truly know if he succeeded in my absence. I know of Earth from what Heimdall’s told me, but it isn’t the same as having my boots on the ground. Before my exile, I was trying to save the world. If I’m going to return, I must have your word that Asgard will come to my aid, if I need it.”

 

“You want my people to fight for yours?”

 

“You owe them more than that...much more,” Steve held Odin’s gaze and held out his hand. “Your inaction led to the destruction of Jotunheim. Don’t do the same thing to Earth.”

 

Odin glanced down to Steve’s hand before stepping nearer and placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Without my sons, Asgard is also in danger. If you want peace, as my dear wife has claimed, then you must return them to me. Do this and you will have your aid.”

 

“I can only find them, I can’t redeem them.”

 

“It is true that their redemption is their own, but reveal them to us and we can guide them to their fates.”

 

Steve took a deep breath and let it out slow. He raised his hand and clapped Odin’s shoulder. “Then I will find your sons and when they return to you, so will I. Together,” Steve said, letting his hatred run off his back like snake skin being shed. _Be a kinder man_. “We can save what’s left.”

 

“Yes,” Odin replied and an old man’s smile curved his cheeks, far too knowing and clever. “Steve Rogers of Midgard and of Jotunheim. We can.”

 

* * *

  

The sketches he had made of Heimdall’s visions lay scattered on the table in his appointed room. He had bound the ones of far-off places in leather and set them aside. Before him, like schematics of a strange machine, lay his mission.

 

Midgard... _Earth_ was not as different as he thought, if he stripped away the blinding light of the technology. There were still cars and buildings, still people going to work, still a semblance of freedom. The buildings of great renown still stood. The statue of Liberty had not been torn down. They still had a president and they still flew the stars and stripes. Earth, or at least America, still thrived. War was still happening, though not on the scale it had been when he vanished. Humans, as always, were still being human. He was eager now to join them.

 

Brooklyn was his drop-off point, since he would know it the best. He would find Loki and then search out Thor in the desert of Puente Antiguo. Loki...Steve would have to be mindful not to kill. Would Brynja have wanted him to if she knew that he was the last? Would killing Loki make him the true monster for having extinguished the last light of Jötunheim?

 

He would let Ymir punish Loki. It was the only way he could see it happening without murdering the prince outright. But Earth was more important than Loki. He would not let his hatred cloud his judgement and leave Earth to pay the price. He would do what he had sworn to do and he would finished what he started.

 

* * *

 

Fandral and Þórir were laughing and pointing to the stars above as Steve sat in the midst of his farewell feast. Sif was beside him and Hogun across. Volstagg was clear on the other side, enjoying the abundance of food.

 

“I didn’t need a feast,” Steve said to Sif and she laughed.

 

“You are our hope of seeing out princes again. You are well worth celebrating,” She pressed her hand to his chest. “You are humble, may it serve you well, but you do not understand your own importance. You will bridge a very old gap between Asgard and Midgard. You will bind us back together as we were in the past. We will be allies once more.”

 

“If I succeed,” Steve took a bite of some bird and washed it down with the strongest drink they had. “If not, you’ll be celebrating my defeat.”

 

Slapping the back of his head, Sif reached out for a bit of fruit. “Not everything is so dark, Steve. The sun will always rise.”

 

“There was no sun on Jötunheim.”

 

“But there is one here and there is one in Midgard. So look to it and believe in light again.”

 

* * *

 

Steve picked out the most _modern_ outfit he could from amongst Asgardian clothing and packed a couple different ones just in case. He had kind of gotten used to the weight and flow of his overcoats. He stuck with black boots, navy blue fitted leather trousers, a short white tunic that he tucked into his trousers and a modified jerkin of black leather with silver fasteners. He wasn’t allowed to take any of the books with him, but he didn’t need them anymore anyway. He packed a couple knives, but decided he wouldn’t need a sword on Midgard...hopefully. Þórir packed him some food, just in case he had to hide out for a little, and he hid his shield with an concealing enchantment Frigga drew into the straps.

 

He could leave as soon as he made the trip to the Observatory. All he had to do was walk out of the room and borrow a horse. Odin was going to use something that would be relatively undetectable to get him to Earth. The Bïfrost would draw too much attention.

 

He stood in his room and gazed at his reflection in a polished golden disk. There was a bonus to having grown his hair out so long; no one would know who he was. Still, the hair on his head had become annoying and he wasn’t going to carry this with him to Earth. This was another turning point in his life and he wanted to face it with a bit of self-assurance. Þórir had left him a bowl of fresh water, a sharp knife and a linen towel. He sighed in the quiet space and began cutting away at the sides. He had seen a couple Asgardian warriors with it and it seemed much better than his unkempt mop. He scraped away the hair from the sides of his head until he could see his scalp. With metal shears, he cut the middle length shorter and trimmed his beard.

 

Just as with his overcoats, Steve had also come to like the braids in his hair and he braided the top down and tied it off with a small bit of leather. His beard was too short now to braid, but he didn’t feel bare.

 

He took a bath, got dressed, and headed out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

With his pack on his back and his shield on his arm, Steve borrowed a white horse from the stables and headed to the Observatory.

 

There were already many horses waiting when he got there.

 

Inside the Observatory, Heimdall stood in his usual spot atop the central dais with his sword resting in front of him. Odin and Frigga were side-by-side, the Warriors Three were grouped together, and Sif was waiting for him at the entrance. He took her hand and walked towards the Warriors.

 

“You know, I might just miss you,” Fandral said, his usually sunny face a bit overcast. “You are a worthy opponent, Steve.”

 

Smiling, Steve took Fandral’s outstretched forearm in a strong grip. “Thank you.”

 

Volstagg immediately wrapped Steve in a bear hug that had him dangling a little off the ground. After stealing the breath from Steve’s lungs with the strength of his embrace, Volstagg set him down. “Do not forget about us when you are down there with the Midgardians.”

 

“I’m more worried that they’ve forgotten me.”

 

“Nonsense! You are their great hero!”

 

“Heroes don’t always mean the same thing on Midgard as they do here,” Steve shook his head. “I promise to let you know if they remembered me or not.”

 

“You had better.”

 

Hogun took his arm in both a greeting and a farewell, but had very little to say. “Training is only useful when we practice what we have learned.”

 

Steve gripped Hogun’s shoulder and nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

 

He turned to Sif and she sighed. “I feel as if I am trading one life for another.”

 

“Why?” He asked, stepping closer.

 

“I will lose your company in the hopes you will return with Thor.”

 

“You love him,” Steve said, reaching out to lay his hand on her upper arm and lowering his voice. “As more than a prince.”

 

Blinking, Sif shifted where she stood. “Do not tell him.”

 

“It isn’t my place to tell him. If all goes to plan, you’ll be able to do that yourself.”

 

“Good luck, Steve. Be safe.”

 

“Have you met me?” he laughed and delighted in Sif’s answering chuckle.

 

“Steve Rogers,” Odin called and Steve pressed a kiss to Sif’s cheek before making his way over to the king. He diverted enough to climb the dais and clasp hands with Heimdall. The guardian nodded to him silently and Steve hurried to Odin.

 

Frigga reached for him and he stepped forward. She took in his new look and cupped his cheek. “So you will return to us?”

 

He looked down for a moment. “Midgard is going to need my help, _your_ help. I have to ensure they get it. For both our sakes.”

 

Smiling in understanding, Frigga patted his shoulder. “If only you had been here in Asgard to teach my sons such forethought. I wish you luck, Steve, and safety.”

 

Bowing his head, Steve turned to Odin. “I’m ready.”

 

Odin beckoned Steve closer and he stepped up in front of the king. “You will be in New York, _Brooklyn_ as you said.”

 

“Okay,” Steve rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

 

“Farewell, Steve Rogers,” Odin raised his hand and Steve felt as if he was being wrapped in the emptiness of space itself. “And good luck.”

 

He could feel Asgard tear away from him and he let himself be carried away.

  

* * *

 

 

Steve’s first physical glimpse of Earth since his abrupt exile was of a dark alley in the middle of the night. He stumbled from the sensation that Odin’s magic had brought on and his footfalls echoed off concrete. It was strange and jarring, because he remembered it, but it was completely different from anything he had experienced for over fifty years. He stood still for a moment, reorienting himself, when the sky rumbled and lightning cracked across the sky. It was all the warning he got before it started to pour.

 

Walking forward, Steve pulled up his hood and started for the main street. It was lit by blue lights, just Heimdall had described and the houses were a multitude of noise and light on their own. It was insanely bright, even at night, and he heard voices from every side. A rumbling that wasn’t from the sky was rushing down the street and he paused in the shadows as a motorcycle zipped past.

 

He decided he would walk around a bit and get a feel for the place as it was now.

 

Steve got as far as an apartment building a block away from where he landed before a group of people walking down the sidewalk forced him into another alley. He kept going, hooking around the back of the building and heading towards the other side. As he rounded the corner, an arrow whistled past his face and embedded in the stone by his head. Freezing, Steve looked up to where it had come from. A man in a raincoat that hid his face was posed with a bow on a fire escape. The man had already nocked another arrow.

 

“You’ve got five seconds to tell me who you are or this one goes between those pretty blues.”

 

Steve’s lips twitched into a wolfish grin and he raised his enchanted shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it! *cheers* That's Part One done for the Wanderer Series. Part Two is plotted, but not written. Hope you enjoyed this installment and are eager for more. Thanks for reading!


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